The Long Game
by siriusblue
Summary: Post Reichenbach, John Watson is a mess. Two lonely people find romance in helping him, but can a relationship started on the back of a lie survive when the truth emerges?
1. Chapter 1

THE LONG GAME

Author: Sirius Blue

Rating: Mature for language, angst and non-graphic sex in later chapters.

Spoilers: The Reichenbach Fall, The Empty Hearse.

Summary: Post-Reichenbach John Watson is a mess. Two lonely people take it on themselves to look after him in their own way and in doing so find romance for themselves. Can a relationship started on the back of a lie survive when the truth emerges?

A/N: This is vaguely AU, but not too much. Dedicated to Mystrade shippers everywhere, for we are legion. 😊

Chapter One.

Greg Lestrade was in shock. He was still attempting to process what a paper white faced Sally Donovan had just burst into his office to tell him.

"Off a roof? Fucking hell!"

"Sir, uniform are…" Greg cut her off, suddenly furious.

"No," he snarled "You and Anderson and that stupid journalist drove him to this. Stand uniform down. You," he pointed at Sally who flinched as though his finger might be loaded. "You can go and tell his landlady. We owe her that at least. Take Alice as family liaison and when you get back, stay out of my sight."

"Sir, what about his brother?"

"I'll tell him, "he sighed as he scrabbled on his desk for his phone and car keys. "Why are you still here?" Donovan fled.

The rain had stopped and the sun was peeking out from behind the clouds as Greg drove slowly to where Mycroft Holmes worked. The traffic was light and he arrived far quicker than he would have liked.

Greg had always hated this part of the job. It was bad enough when you didn't know the people whose world you were about to turn upside down, but he knew Mycroft Holmes.

He had materialised in Greg's office one day seven years ago, not long after Greg's first encounter with Sherlock. His appearance had almost caused Greg to choke on his coffee. No civilian was supposed to get near his office without an appointment and yet here was this tall bloke with chestnut hair and blue eyes, dressed like he'd just wandered off the set of Downton Abbey standing in front of Greg's desk.

"Who let you in?" Greg had spluttered.

The man's nose had crinkled in a familiar way before he spoke. He had an upper-class accent with cut-glass diction. The kind of voice used to being obeyed and it made Greg's hackles rise.

Mycroft had introduced himself and spoke of Sherlock, informing Greg that his brother was a recovering drug addict and that crime-solving seemed to be his new addiction. There had been a tangible offer in that conversation. Greg had basically told the man to go screw himself.

His old Chief Superintendent had had a chat with Greg afterwards, clueing him in on a few things and Greg had groaned out loud when he realised he'd told the most powerful man in the country to piss off.

However, Mycroft didn't seem to be the type to hold a grudge and he and Greg had, through Sherlock, become acquainted in a way.

While Greg's personal life had self-destructed, his hair had turned grey and too much beer and too many takeaways had thickened his waistline, Mycroft looked exactly the same. Impeccably dressed, always. A bit less hair, but still handsome with those patrician features, as distant as Neptune sometimes and sometimes twice as cold.

Greg sighed aloud, squaring his shoulders. He couldn't put it off any longer.

His warrant card got him as far as Mycroft's gorgeous assistant. Greg had wondered, just once, how the man got any work done at all with such a distraction.

"He's busy, Inspector." She continued tapping away at her laptop.

Greg leaned over the desk and gently closed the lid. Her eyes widened at his audacity.

"No, he's not. Not for this. Tell him I need to see him right now."

He hadn't meant to raise his voice but if there was ever a conversation he wanted out of the way, it was this one.

Two minutes later he found himself in Mycroft's office with the grey/green walls, portrait of the Queen and the ceiling skylights. The man himself raised one imperious eyebrow at being interrupted.

"Mr Holmes…Mycroft…I'm sorry to have to tell you that your brother is dead."

Mycroft looked utterly stunned.

"Sherlock? How?"

"He jumped off the roof of St Bart's. There was…"

Greg's voice cracked as the immensity of the loss hit him with the force of a tsunami. He felt hot tears running down his face but made no effort to wipe them away. He didn't care if he was being unprofessional, he had just lost a friend and the world had just lost the most brilliant deductive mind, but he was astonished by Mycroft's reaction.

Greg found himself sitting on one of the office chairs with Mycroft's hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Greg wiped his eyes on his sleeve as he drew one shuddering breath after another. He felt Mycroft move away and missed the human contact. There was the sound of glass on glass and a Waterford tumbler half-full of brandy was put into his hands.

"Drink it, Gregory, you've had a terrible shock."

When he was sure he wouldn't choke, Greg took a huge gulp of the spirit and felt tendrils of warmth spread though his whole body.

Mycroft pulled the other office chair over and sat so he and Greg were at eye level. The whole thing had a surreal feeling to it. Whatever maelstrom of emotion was going through his head, Mycroft had managed to retain his inscrutability.

"I'm sorry," Greg's voice was clotted with emotion and brandy. 2 I'm so sorry, Mycroft. I'm supposed to be the one comforting you."

Mycroft's expression suddenly looked strained. He reached over and squeezed Greg's arm.

"I also thought this kind of thing was delegated to uniformed officers. I'm glad that didn't happen. I'm glad it was you, Gregory."

Greg gave a heavy sigh. "I have to go. I need to make sure John is okay."

Mycroft got to his feet. "Bear with me, just for a moment, Gregory."

Greg watched the elegant figure walk over to his computer and press some buttons. He then picked up the phone on his desk, spoke into it briefly, then hung up. Greg felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket as Mycroft reached for a piece of paper on his desk.

It was a text. "REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO D.P.S. ON RETURN TO SCOTLAND YARD."

"Shit."

"What's wrong?"

"I've been summoned. Department of Professional Standards."

"Why are they investigating you?"

"Probably about my time with Sherlock"

"Oh, dear."

"Look, for what it's worth, Mycroft, I never believed your brother was a fake. And I still don't. If I've still got a job after this I'm going to prove it."

"That means a great deal. Thank you, Gregory. Doctor Watson is safe where he is for now. He'll only be discharged into your care, however long it takes. Look after him, Gregory."

"I intend to."

Mycroft handed him the piece of paper he had written on.

"My private number," he explained. "if you or John need anything. I will be in touch very soon regardless." Greg pocketed it.

"Thank you," said Greg, touched. "I should get back and, er, let you, er…"

"Indeed. Goodbye, Gregory."

Once the inspector had left his office, Mycroft sank into the chair behind his desk. He covered his face with his hands, biting his lip to stop the tears from forming.

This was going to be so hard, the hardest thing he had ever done. Whether he acknowledged it or not, Sherlock had touched so many lives. Now, as always, it was his big brother's job to deal with the aftermath. He just hoped he was up to the task.

Back at Scotland Yard they took away Greg's warrant card and escorted him from the premises, pending an official enquiry.

In the accident and emergency department he was informed that John Watson had had to be sedated.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, "said Greg, crossing his fingers in his pocket in lieu of flashing his warrant card. "I've come for Doctor Watson."

"Do you have any idea what he's been through?" demanded the nurse. "he's done nothing wrong!"

"I know, love. "sighed Greg, holding up both hands in a pacifying gesture. "I've come to take him home. By order."

"Who's order?" she asked furiously, riffling through John's chart. "Oh…"

Greg acknowledged her look of surprise.

"The Government's"

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

A/N See Chapter One for warnings, etc., etc.

The sun shouldn't have been shining at Sherlock's funeral, thought Mycroft. The very heavens themselves should have been protesting the fact that he had had to bury his little brother.

It was a very poor turnout for a man who, until recently, had been a darling of the internet and the press, only Mycroft's influence had kept the vultures at bay. Their growing condemnation of Sherlock had sickened him to the core.

Mycroft hadn't known what to expect when he saw John Watson afterwards. He certainly hadn't expected the punch that had nearly floored him. Mycroft knew John blamed him, in part, for Sherlock's death and thought he had gotten off lightly.

Greg Lestrade had stepped in before it got any worse, bundling a now-weeping John into his car with a firm command to stay put before returning to Mycroft, who had only just stopped seeing stars.

Gently Greg touched where the punch had landed.

"That's going to be a right shiner," he said, grimacing. "I'd get a bag of frozen peas on that. Look, Mycroft. John was out of order. Do you want me to…"?

"I'm fine, Gregory. He's grieving. He needs someone to blame and God knows I've given him good cause."

Greg looked concerned. Without thinking he took both of Mycroft's hands in his, holding onto them for longer than was strictly necessary.

Mycroft could hardly bear it, first the touch on his brow and now this. He resisted the insane urge to throw himself at Greg Lestrade's feet.

"Go home, Mycroft. Take some aspirin or something. You've had a hell of a day and you're white as a sheet. I'm sure the country can run itself for a while."

That made Mycroft smile, just briefly. Greg had let go of his hands and stuck his own in his coat pockets.

"I'd better get him home. Are you sure you're going to be okay?"

"Yes, of course. I must ask you though, has there been any improvement?" He inclined his head towards Greg's car.

"Not really. He barely sleeps and when he does the nightmares are horrific. He barely eats and today was the first day I've seen him get dressed. It's just as well I'm still suspended, I don't think I could have coped with this as well as my job."

"I honestly don't have the words to thank you for what you're doing, Gregory." Greg shrugged, suddenly embarrassed.

"That's what friends do for each other, innit? See you."

Mycroft watched him drive away then his driver materialised at his side.

"Where to, sir?"

"Home, please. I need some aspirin."

Mycroft closed his front door behind him and went to the kitchen. After rummaging in the freezer, he went into his living room but he couldn't settle. He paced the floor, tea towel-wrapped ice cubes clamped to his throbbing eye as he gave himself a good talking-to.

Greg Lestrade disturbed him but in a way Mycroft had neither been looking for nor expected.

Mycroft admired his way of thinking, his strong moral code and his work ethic. Also, the man's kindness knew no bounds. That awful day in his office when Greg had broken down Mycroft realised the man had a heart big enough for the whole world.

He had been pleased when Greg had taken Sherlock under his wing in a quasi-paternal fashion as it had been the perfect excuse for Mycroft to increase the surveillance on him and he would not admit, even to himself, how much time he spent poring over the reports and watching the CCTV recordings.

Greg Lestrade was also extremely handsome but Mycroft had met some of the most beautiful men and women in the world and they had left him unmoved.

The deduction was laughably simple. Mycroft was infatuated. It had taken a while to work out as he had always believed himself to be above physical and emotional attachments and made no attempt to pursue any. Isaac Newton had died a virgin and no one had said very much about that, had they?

Mycroft knew he was as clever as Newton but fatally flawed when one glimpse of a certain tall, powerfully-built man in a cheap suit could set his heart pounding faster than any treadmill.

Sometimes Mycroft thought he could sense something between the two of them, a lingering glance, a shy unprovoked smile, a warmth between them more than would be expected given their actual relationship. Other times Mycroft thought he was fooling himself, mistaking kindness for something else, looking for a sop for his loneliness. He missed his brother more than ever now. Sherlock would have been amused and disgusted in equal measure if he'd know the thoughts going on in his big brother's head.

Mycroft gave up as his head was really starting to ache and went in search of some painkillers.

The next day he went back to work and had literally just sat down behind his desk when his mobile rang. He smiled when he saw "G.L." on the screen.

"Hello, Gregory."

"Hello," Honey poured over gravel. That's what Mycroft had likened Greg's voice to in one of his more fanciful moments. "I'm ringing to see how you are. How's the eye?"

Mycroft felt his spirits lift, this was typical of the man.

"Causing no amount of rumour and speculation throughout the building, Gregory." Greg laughed but it was true. Mycroft had woken up to a spectacularly black eye than morning and he was sure that only his position had stopped everyone from asking about it.

"It's fine. A little tender, granted, but I'll live."

"Good to hear. I know you're busy so I'll let you get on."

"Yes, I have to get ready for Brussels tonight." Part of that preparation had included asking Anthea how best to camouflage the damage. Her suggestion of a paper bag had earned her a withering glare.

"Lovely, all that beer and chocolate. And there's some incredible museums." Mycroft snorted.

"Not much chance of that, I'm afraid. I suspect it will be extremely dull."

"Safe trip, anyway. Let me know when you get back."

"Yes, of course. Goodbye, Gregory."

As he ended the call, Mycroft was smiling. The day looked better already.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

A/N Previous warnings etc. in Chapter One.

Mycroft had been right, Brussels had been tedious in the extreme. He had no sooner returned to London when there was a crisis in Turkey which had required his urgent attention. Soothing ruffled feathers, foreign and domestic, took some time and he felt as though his feet hadn't touched the ground in weeks. He went straight home from the airport and slept for fourteen hours without interruption.

He knew he probably shouldn't be doing this but he gave his driver explicit instructions and then settled back in his seat. It had been almost three weeks and not a word between either of them.

Taking out his mobile he started returning all the non-urgent calls and e-mails that had built up in his absence and he only looked up when his driver told him they had arrived.

They had stopped in an ordinary street of terraced houses in a quiet London suburb. Number 42 looked no different from its neighbours except all the windows were open and, even through the soundproofing provided by the car, he could hear Britten's War Requiem playing.

Mycroft made to get out of the car. He told his driver not to wait, he would ring when he wanted picked up.

He stood at the gate. Now that he was here he was strangely reluctant to go up and knock at the door. He realised his mouth was dry and his palms were sweating. He chided himself. It was the middle of summer. Except he never had sweaty palms until he contemplated arriving unannounced at this house. He went through the gate and looked for a doorbell. Finding none, he knocked hard, hoping he'd be heard over the soaring oratorio.

Britten was abruptly switched off and he heard footsteps approaching the door. It opened and Greg Lestrade was framed in the doorway.

Mycroft had never seen him in anything other than a suit. Him wearing paint-spattered jeans and a t-shirt threw Mycroft off-balance. He was too well aware he was trespassing here but the urge to see Greg after so much time spent with boring diplomats and civil servants had been almost overwhelming. He just hoped he would be welcome.

"Mycroft! What the…How do you know where I live? Stupid question. Come in, will you?"

"Thank you, Gregory," he said, remembering his manners, only too relieved he hadn't been told to bugger off. As he crossed the threshold he was engulfed in the smell of paint, which made him sneeze.

"Ah. Better come into the garden," said Greg apologetically. "It reeks in here."

Mycroft followed him down the hall, through the tidy kitchen and outside into a small, neatly-kept garden. There was a cushioned bench on the grass with a table beside it on which rested a dirty mug and a half-full ashtray.

"Have a seat and I'll put the kettle on. Tea alright? I think we're out of coffee."

"Tea will be fine. No sugar."

Greg took away the mug and ashtray and returned minutes later with two steaming mugs of tea which he plonked on the table, fishing the now-clean ashtray out of his back pocket and sitting at the other end of the bench with a grunt.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?" asked Greg. Mycroft sipped his tea which was excellent.

"I came to see how you are. You and John. I could have rung but…anyway. I see you're keeping busy."

"Yeah. I never really had time to redecorate after my wife left. That's one thing about playing the waiting game, you've got all the time in the world to do the things you never had time for before."

"When is your disciplinary hearing?" asked Mycroft.

"Two days' time. They're really dragging their heels on this one," replied Greg morosely. "Digging up as much dirt as they can."

"I'm sure you've got nothing to worry about."

"But what if I have? I'm a thief-taker, Mycroft, and I'm bloody good at it. If they take that away from me, I don't know what I'll do."

He sounded genuinely anguished and there was real pain in his soft, brown eyes. Mycroft tried to ease it.

"So, what would be the best-case scenario?"

"A formal reprimand, a note on my file for a year in case I screw up again and goodbye any hope of promotion for a while. It's not like I can deny what they're saying, I did let Sherlock help me on a lot of my cases."

"At my behest. And with the support of your old Superintendent as I recall." Said Mycroft sharply.

"Yea, well, knowing my luck I'll end up in uniform again, wrestling drunks on a Saturday night and directing tourists to Buckingham Palace."

"You'll just have to wait and see. It might not come to that."

Greg snorted disbelievingly and Mycroft decided to change the subject.

"How's John? I take it he's not here?"

"He's doing a lot better, "smiled Greg. "He's seeing his therapist again regularly now and he's got a job interview today at the A&E department at St Thomas's."

"That's wonderful news."

"Yeah, he said last week that he needed to do something, he couldn't just sit and brood about what happened. Turns out his particular skill set is very much in demand, especially in a major trauma centre like St Thomas's so I'm keeping my fingers crossed. He says if he gets it he's going to look for a flat as well. Completely fresh start. Oh, don't worry, I'll still keep an eye on him."

"I don't doubt it," smiled Mycroft. "He seems to be doing extremely well when you consider…" Greg interrupted him.

"He loved your brother, Mycroft. And so much of what he's going through now is because of what he didn't say when Sherlock was alive to hear it."

Mycroft looked away, afraid that Greg would be able to see all too clearly what he was thinking and silently cursed Sherlock for leaving him with this mess.

"Never mind John," said Greg softly. "How are you coping? He was your brother."

Mycroft was saved from replying by the slamming of the front door and a familiar voice yelling

Hey, Greg! Where are you?"

"In the garden" Greg bellowed back. Mycroft stood up, suddenly nervous again.

"I should go. It's been nice seeing you, Gregory."

John Watson stepped into the garden as Greg replied.

"Likewise. Don't leave it so long next time, eh?"

Both men turned to look at John. Mycroft was amazed at the transformation. Grief had etched some fresh lines on his face but this John Watson no longer resembled the small earth-bound cloud he had seen at Sherlock's funeral. He looked dapper in a suit and tie and he dropped his briefcase, walked over and shook Mycroft's hand. His eyes were clear and bright without a hint of blame or hatred.

"I'm sorry about your eye," were John's first words.

"Forgotten about. You look well, John."

"All thanks to my Dad over there." Greg laughed and flipped him the V sign. "I dunno what I would have done without him these past few weeks."

"I know. I'll leave you to it. I just came round to see how you were and to hear what was happening with Gregory."

John smirked. If ever there was an I'm-not-buying-it expression, it was all over John Watson's face. Mycroft, to his horror, could feel the back of his neck turning red. He looked at Greg.

"Thank you for the tea, Gregory. I'll leave you in peace."

"Here, I'll show you out," smiled Greg.

When he returned to the garden John had his tie off and his shirt sleeves rolled up and was luxuriating in the warm sunshine.

"So?" asked Greg.

"I got the job," smiled John. "I can start next week."

"Good for you, that's brilliant!"

"Can't wait," said John stretching and yawning. "How about you knock the decorating on the head and we go and get pissed? Celebrate a bit. "

"I thought you'd never ask," sighed Greg.

Back in his office Mycroft sat staring into space for the longest time. He had a lot of work to do but could concentrate on only one thing as he weighed up the pros and cons.

"Bugger it," he said aloud and picked up his office phone, pressing a button.

"Get me Scotland yard, please. The Commissioner's office. Yes, I'll hold. Make sure he knows it's me."

Greg and John were halfway through dinner in Greg's favourite curry house and more than a few pints down when John commented out of the blue.

"Mycroft. He fancies you."

Greg almost choked on his lamb pasanda. He took a gulp of lager to wash it down.

"What d'you mean, he fancies me? "John snorted into his beef Madras.

"I've seen the way he looks at you, especially when you're not looking. He's like a lovesick puppy. Face it, Greg. He likes you a hell of a lot."

Greg blushed. His bisexuality had never really been a secret to those who knew him closely.

"Yeah…well…er…" he stuttered. John howled with laughter.

"Oh, this is perfect! Don't tell me you like him as well?"

"He's gorgeous," admitted Greg. "I've always had a thing for redheads."

"I don't believe it, "John chuckled, wiping his eyes and thoroughly enjoying Greg's discomfiture. "Ask him out. What's the worst that could happen?"

"I could get deported. Or I could vanish without trace," said Greg darkly. He refused to say anything else on the subject and John gave up teasing him.

Greg's dreams were disturbed ones that night and he cursed as he stood at the kitchen sink drinking a pint of water and swallowing paracetamol. His entire future would be decided in two days. He didn't need dreams of Mycroft Holmes to cloud his judgement.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

A/N: Warnings etc. in Chapter One.

There was strong, black coffee waiting for him in the kitchen on the morning of his disciplinary as well as an anxious John Watson.

John didn't say much for which Greg was incredibly grateful. He felt as though something huge was trying to fight its way out of his stomach despite having vomited twice already but the coffee stayed down and he relished its warmth.

"Good luck, mate," said John watching him with troubled eyes as Greg straightened his tie in the mirror.

"Thanks," he replied, tight-lipped. He couldn't help thinking he was on his way to his own execution and, worse, he'd have to drive himself there.

He parked at Scotland Yard and was conveyed to the ninth floor. This was where the fiends in human shape operated, the office of Professional Standards. The officer at the desk gave him a smile with all the warmth of a penguin' s fart and told him they would be with him shortly. Greg resisted the urge to get up and pace the floor. The door to the office directly behind the desk opened and the Detective Chief Inspector called him in to his doom.

Greg sat at a table opposite three other officers, all higher rank than him and all looking disapproving. They bandied phrases like 'unauthorised civilian access to active cases', 'professional misconduct', 'bringing the Force into disrepute'. Greg looked down at his knees. He was finished, he knew it. He just wished they'd tell him he was done so he could go somewhere and get drunk.

"Inspector Lestrade, do you have anything else to add to your original statement?"

"No. All I have to say is that I allowed the now-deceased Sherlock Holmes access to my cases with the approval of my then-Super. And someone important in Government circles thought it was a good idea too."

There were frowns and glares all round at this. Suddenly Greg felt defiant. Sod them.

"Be that as it may, this hearing has come to a decision." Greg's heart started to hammer in his chest. This was it.

"You acted inappropriately, but with good intentions and your clear-up rate speaks for itself. You are a good officer and we can ill-afford to do without the likes of you. Consider this a formal reprimand. This will stay on your record for a period of one year. You are expected to resume your post tomorrow morning." Greg could hardly believe his ears, and when his warrant card was returned to him, he genuinely thought he might cry. "Watch your step in future, Inspector."

"I will," he muttered as he shook hands with all three of them before leaving the office. Once in the lift there were a few tears of utter relief, but they didn't stop him smiling. He felt like he was walking on air as he left the Yard and drove home.

John was waiting for him as he had hoped and was every bit as delighted as Greg had been.

"You jammy sod!" he exclaimed, thumping Greg on the back as he hugged him.

Greg could not stop smiling as he pulled off the tie that was threatening to choke him and changed out of his best suit.

"I'm starving," he said to John. "Let's go and find some breakfast."

John was out and Greg had just finished ironing the last of his shirts in preparation for going back to work. He had already spoken, reluctantly, to Sally Donovan to find out what he could expect when he got back and was completely unsurprised at her litany of complaints but she finished with

"It'll be good to have you back, sir. "

Greg bit off the uncharitable thought that she had been mostly responsible for the whole mess. That could wait, now he had all the time in the world.

On impulse, he picked up his phone and it rang out. He really didn't expect it to be answered and was fully prepared to leave a voicemail when he heard Mycroft's voice.

"Hello, Gregory. I hear congratulations are in order."

"Is there anything you don't know?" grumbled Greg. He heard the amusement in Mycroft's voice when he replied.

"Very little, actually."

"Well, I just wanted to say thank you. I don't know how you did it and I really don't want to know, but I know it was you."

"It really wasn't. Your record, I believe, stood for itself as well as the testimony of your former boss. Now that I can believe. You are a very fine officer, Gregory. They appreciated that."

"Okay, I'm not sure I believe you, but I'll take it."

"Indeed. Are you busy tonight?"

Greg thought he'd misheard until Mycroft repeated it.

"Er, no, I'm not as it happens."

Mycroft mentioned a restaurant just off the Marylebone Road.

"That's if you like Italian food."

"I do. Very much. Are you asking me out? "

"I don't know, I've never done this before."

"What? Asked a man out?"

"Asked anyone." Greg hooted in disbelief. No way could Mycroft mean what he thought he meant.

"My God, "said Greg as there was an embarrassed silence at the end of the phone. "You're serious. Look, I'd love to have dinner with you."

"Oh, good. Shall we say eight o'clock?"

"Eight's fine. Can I just ask, why me? And why now?"

"I liked to keep an eye on the people that were involved with Sherlock. Once you came into his life I couldn't stop looking. As to why now…well…I watched my little brother fall hopelessly, helplessly, irrevocably in love with his best friend. He never did anything about it because he had no room in his life for sentiment and he didn't want to hurt or alienate John. And he ended up hurting him in the worst way possible. I don't want it to be too late for me. It's just dinner, let's take it from there."

Greg had no answer to that. Some small talk cleared the ashes of their previous conversation and Greg hung up, utterly stunned.

Mycroft's hands were shaking as he put down his mobile. He was scarlet in the face and sweating, unbelievably pleased he had done it over the phone and amazed at his own daring. Or stupidity. Probably the last thing he needed to do was to get involved like that with Greg. The potential for hurt on both sides was enormous but, for once in his adult life, Mycroft didn't care.

Greg was slightly late, he had underestimated the traffic at that time of night, but he was directed to a corner table. Greg was quietly impressed at the understated décor of the place and the wonderful aromas wafting from the kitchen. Mycroft got up as Greg approached and smiled.

"Sorry I'm late, I forgot about the roadworks"

"It's fine," he replied as Greg sat down opposite, thanking the waiter as he handed them the menus.

"Drink, sir?" asked the waiter. Mycroft ordered red wine but Greg declined, asking for sparkling water instead. In response to Mycroft's raised eyebrow, Greg elaborated.

"I've got the car. Plus, I'm back to work tomorrow and the last thing I want is to face Sally Donovan with a hangover."

"Fair point."

"Even if it does taste like old flatirons." Mycroft smirked.

All in all, Mycroft had been pleasantly surprised at how quickly the night had passed and what a charming and attentive dinner companion Greg had turned out to be. He was so easy to talk to and had been both amused and impressed by Mycroft's observations about their fellow diners.

It was not dissimilar to time they had spent together before but Mycroft was aware of something in the air between them, something sparking that made his heart beat that little bit faster. This was an actual date, his first ever and he had not been disappointed, wishing only for the night not to end just yet. They both declined coffee but, as they got up to leave, Mycroft's phone began to ring.

"I'm sorry, Gregory. I must take this."

Silently cursing, Mycroft answered the call.

COBRA

One word. That was all it took for Mycroft to get the feeling that his coach had just turned into an enormous pumpkin.

"Thank you, I'll be along directly," replied Mycroft, replacing his phone in his breast pocket. "I hate to do this, Gregory, but…"

"It's fine," replied Greg with a smile. "Look, I'll drop you off."

"I'm supposed to be picked up by…do you know what? They can wait. You are, after all a Detective Inspector in the Metropolitan Police."

"Trained in firearms too," chuckled Greg as they made their way to the car park. "We'll be there in no time."

Sadly true, thought Mycroft as Greg eased the BMW into the London traffic. All too quickly they were as near to Downing Street as Greg was able to get. He put on the handbrake and turned in his seat to look at Mycroft.

"I had a really nice time tonight, Mycroft."

"So, did I," he replied honestly. "Let's hope there's nothing major happens to spoil the next time." He realised, to his horror, what he'd said and tried to backtrack.

"Er…that is…I mean…What?" Greg had started to laugh.

"Sorry. I know this is new to you but don't fret so much. I really do want to see you again."

Mycroft was relieved. He thought he'd blown it.

"Do you know what else I'd like?"

"No…"

"I'd really like to kiss you."

"Oh, yes…"

Mycroft could feel himself blushing again. Greg unfastened his seatbelt and leaned in, his hand cupping Mycroft's cheek as their lips met. Mycroft's eyes closed as he breathed in the clean scent of him, sliding his arms around Greg's neck as his mouth opened under his. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, butterflies in his stomach and, for the first time in his life, real, proper desire for another human being.

It was Greg who broke the kiss but did not move away. Their foreheads were still touching and his warm hand moved to the back of Mycroft's neck.

"Oh, wow." Greg breathed. His pupils were enormous in his soft brown eyes.

"My sentiments exactly," whispered Mycroft. "Gregory, I have to go before they send out the helicopter."

Greg laughed "And before I get arrested for loitering with intent, too."

Mycroft disentangled himself from the car and from Greg.

"I'll be in touch very soon, I promise." Greg nodded and restarted the engine. He was smiling as he drove home. In reality he hadn't known what to expect but he had been surprised at how much he had enjoyed himself. He was already looking forward to the next time.

The last place on Earth Mycroft wanted to be at that precise time was that COBRA meeting. He presented his usual suave, inscrutable front, hiding the turmoil in his brain, still reeling from his first ever kiss.

There were a million reasons for him not to pursue a relationship with Greg Lestrade and he knew, given time, he could come up with some pretty compelling arguments. That was his head talking. His heart knew better.

If nothing else, he wanted another kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

A/N All warnings, spoilers etc. in Chapter One. It's getting steamy…

Greg returned to work and, after about an hour, felt like he'd never been away. It seemed the criminal fraternity had been busy in his absence.

He got the lowdown on the active cases from Donovan and Dimmock, the latter handing back the reins with an almost audible sigh of relief. Greg informed them that they would also be investigating Richard Brook and he could see the effort it took for Donovan to stop rolling her eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes was not a fake. Jim Moriarty was real," he stated flatly. "Consulting criminal, just like Sherlock said."

"Based on what?" asked Donovan archly.

"Years and years of knowing Sherlock. Do you honestly think he could have faked being a genius for all that time? No one's that good an actor."

Greg did not like the expression on her face one little bit. She had really hated Sherlock and the thought that she might actually have been wrong about him was obviously causing her pain.

"If you don't like it, put in for a transfer," he snarled. "I'll be happy to sign off on it."

She turned and walked off without a word.

Greg reclaimed his office and sat behind his desk. Someone else had obviously been using it, everything was out of place. Grinning to himself he set about putting it right.

Much later he was deep into a forensics report about what the press would soon dub The Crouch End Butcher when there was a knock on his door and he looked up.

Detective Constable Sean Smith was there, an anxious look on his face.

"I'm taking lunch orders, sir. Can I get you anything?"

Smith was a recent transfer from Vice and Greg didn't know him very well yet. Tall, blond, with intense grey eyes, the man turned heads wherever he went.

"Blimey, is that the time? No thanks, I'll just get some fresh air, I think."

Greg stepped outside and lit a cigarette. As he put his lighter back in his pocket his phone rang.

"Do you know how bad those things are for you?" It was Mycroft.

"You can talk," grumbled Greg. "Where are you?"

"I'll be in St James's Park in ten minutes. Would you like to help me feed the ducks?"

"Yeah," smiled Greg. "See you there."

Greg spotted him immediately. The park wasn't very busy and the tall, well-dressed figure stood out.

Greg was warmed by the genuine pleasure in Mycroft's eyes when he saw him.

"I can't stay long," Greg warned.

"Nor can I," admitted Mycroft. "I thought I'd take a chance to see you. And talk to you. Gregory, I must say something. Please, hear me out."

Uh oh, thought Greg.

"I really want to keep seeing you," Mycroft continued. "Can you promise me you'll be discreet about all this?"

"Discreet? You make it sound like I'm your mistress or something. There's no law against it, Mycroft. I should know."

"Please try to understand. This is vitally important. There are people out there who, if they knew we were a couple, would try and get to me through you. They would hurt you in order to hurt me and I could not bear that, Gregory. I've lost so much recently, if something like that happened to you it would break me. Do you see what I mean?"

That pulled Greg up, chillingly he knew exactly how bad it could be.

"I know what you mean, I do, honestly. When you put it that way, it's not much of an ask, is it?"

"So, you still want us to continue going out?"

"Of course. For a bright bloke, you're awfully thick sometimes. I really like you and I know how to keep my mouth shut."

Mycroft smiled and Greg relaxed. He captured one of Mycroft's hands in his. It felt right so he left it there as they stood at the edge of the lake. The ducks were destined to be disappointed, Greg thought.

"I know you much you like Shakespeare," said Mycroft shyly. "There's an open-air production of A Midsummer Night's Dream on this weekend. I wondered if you'd like to go?"

"I'd love to, "said Greg and Mycroft blushed.

"I'll text you the details. I'm sorry, Gregory. I have to get back."

Greg looked around quickly and, seeing no one in the immediate vicinity, closed the gap between them, gently brushing his lips against Mycroft's.

"See you at the weekend," he whispered.

The play was everything Time Out had promised it would be. For the couple holding hands discreetly in the back row it was spellbinding but only one was really concentrating on the stage while the other was losing himself in his partner. Moved by the beauty of the language, Greg wiped his eyes several times. Mycroft could gauge Greg's emotional state further by the intensity of the grip on his hand and, when it ended, Greg was one of the first on his feet to applaud.

"That was amazing," Greg enthused later over bucket-sized glasses of wine at a nearby brasserie. Mycroft smiled, pleased.

"You certainly seemed to enjoy it. Not many people cry at Shakespeare."

"Why ever not?" asked Greg defiantly. "If people knew just how beautiful the language is…oh, hell, I'm preaching to the converted."

Mycroft took a hefty slug of wine before admitting, "'The Lives of Others'. It moves me every time I watch it. Beautiful film. And at the end…argh," He ran his fingers through his hair.

"I don't think I've ever seen it," confessed Greg.

"You absolutely must come to my house and watch it," insisted Mycroft. "Sometime soon so I can address this appalling lapse in your education."

"I bet you say that to all the boys," teased Greg. He loved to watch Mycroft blush. "I will though. And soon. I promise."

John had moved out. Now Greg was back at work and he had a new job it seemed like the right time. The hospital had accommodation for him and he was more than happy to take it.

Greg had helped him move in one drizzly Wednesday.

"Not much, is it?" said Greg, casting his eye over what had optimistically been described as a bed-sit. Shoe box, more like, but Greg kept his thoughts to himself.

"It'll do, "said John as he sat on the floor surrounded by cardboard boxes.

"If you're sure…" said Greg doubtfully.

"Yeah, I am. So, I'll see you on Friday then? At The Black Dog? First one there gets them in."

"Count on it."

They hugged clumsily and Greg left John to his unpacking.

The next few days and weeks passed for Greg in a daze of work and spending time with Mycroft whenever possible. He had heard the phrase 'pleasantly winging it' before and he thought that summed up their relationship perfectly.

Greg knew he had to be patient, he didn't want to scare Mycroft off by coming on too strong or demanding too much from him too soon but sometimes, God, he could grab the man and screw him into the wall.

And there continued to be so many good times, erasing the memory of the not-so-good which had been interrupted by his work, or Mycroft's, the restaurant where Mycroft had astonished the waiter, and Greg, by conversing in flawless Japanese which had earned them the best table in the place where they had fed each other teriyaki, sipped sake and held hands under the table. Moments like that made it wonderful.

Greg's birthday was looming large and he wasn't looking forward to it until Mycroft surprised him with a pair of tickets for a box at the Albert Hall to hear the War Requiem. Greg knew Mycroft was heading to China the day after his birthday and hadn't expected anything at all. The day came and Greg had been utterly enthralled by it all, even if he had had to hire a dinner jacket for the occasion. They had downed champagne, nibbled canapes and watched the other people thronging the Hall, Mycroft making him laugh by pointing out a few home truths about everyone who passed by them. They were heading for the car park where Mycroft's driver was due to pick them up, Greg having left his car at home.

"I got Donovan to pick up the penguin suit," said Greg. "I told her I had a date."

"You didn't tell her with who?"

"Look, Mycroft. I know your reasons for wanting to keep things as far under the radar as possible and I respect that but Donovan's not stupid. None of them are. They know I'm seeing someone but they don't know who. I'm not going to deny something that's made me so happy."

Mycroft was immediately disarmed.

"I make you happy?" he asked softly. Greg smiled tenderly.

"Of course you do. Ridiculously so."

Suddenly Mycroft was in Greg's arms, easing him up against the wall of the narrow street that ran parallel to the car park

"No cameras," explained Mycroft before kissing Greg hungrily.

Their mouths opened and Greg could taste champagne and the faint tang of cigarette smoke on Mycroft's tongue. He held Mycroft closer as they continued to kiss, savouring the long, lean feeling of him pressed so close. The wall was hard against Greg's back but he didn't object, his hands moving oh so slowly over Mycroft, breaking the kiss, burying his face in Mycroft's neck, hearing his soft moan of pleasure as Greg's questing mouth found a sweet spot.

"Come home with me," Mycroft whispered. "I want this as much as you."

Greg nodded his acquiescence, not sure if he was capable of coherent speech as most of his blood supply appeared to have been diverted below his waist.

Greg's mobile rang and he could have screamed. Mycroft watched him, breathing heavily as he straightened his jacket while Greg answered his phone.

"What! Smith? Some fucker had better be dead, I'm not kidding." Greg closed his eyes. There was nothing like being called in on a triple murder to kill your sex drive stone dead. "I'll be there as soon as I can. It's fine. Bye."

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. At least the bastard had the decency to apologise for spoiling my birthday."

"I understand. That's the price of being involved with a policeman," said Mycroft wryly.

"I'll see you when you get back from China."

Mycroft smiled and kissed Greg goodnight, a chaste kiss but it still had Greg fuming all the way to Brixton in the taxi when he thought about how the night should have ended.

"I'm going to call you Coitus Interruptus," snarled Greg at D.C. Smith who was waiting for him at the crime scene,

"I'm sorry, sir. You were the only ranking officer available. Nice jacket." Greg growled.

"Don't mind me, at least I'm still alive. Which is more than can be said for those poor bastards. Still, it's a shitty way to finish your birthday."

Greg spotted Anderson whose eyes nearly dropped out of their sockets at the sight of Greg in a dinner jacket.

"It's my birthday. I was at a concert. Can we get on?"

It was nearly dawn and Greg was exhausted by the time he made it home. He collapsed across his bed without bothering to undress and was asleep in seconds. He was so sound he missed a very rare text message.

EN ROUTE TO BEIJING. MISSING YOU ALREADY. LOVE M xx

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

A/N: Warnings, spoilers etc. in Chapter One.

St Thomas's hospital was like every other one Greg had ever had the misfortune to visit. Crowded, noisy and it smelled.

He entered the accident and emergency department and walked up to the reception desk.

"Can I help you?" asked the woman behind the desk.

"I'm looking for Doctor John Watson. I believe he's on duty today."

"Can I ask who's looking for him?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. There's no panic if he's busy."

"I'll just check. Bear with me, Inspector." She vanished into the chaos, returning after a few minutes and said. "He's in the canteen. If you're quick, you'll catch him."

"Thanks, "said Greg.

The place was a maze but a helpful volunteer pointed him in the right direction. Inside he spotted John's fair head in a far corner. He was talking to someone else. It looked to be quite an animated conversation but John was smiling so Greg didn't feel too bad about interrupting.

"Hello, John."

John got to his feet. Dressed in navy blue scrubs with a stethoscope around his neck he looked every inch the medical professional. He also looked knackered but the old twinkle had returned to his eye, Greg was delighted to see. John grinned at him and stuck his hand out for Greg to shake.

"Hi, Greg, what are you doing here?" A look of concern crossed John's face. "You're not ill, are you?"

"Nah, I brought you something. Mind if I sit down?"

"Christ," exclaimed John, "Where did my manners go? Greg Lestrade, this is Huw Williams. He's a paediatrician."

"Hi," said Greg. Huw Williams was a very ordinary-looking man with short brown hair, broad shoulders under the obligatory scrubs and emerald green eyes but when he smiled his whole face lit up and he was transformed.

"Lovely to meet you, "His accent was Welsh which made every word sound like poetry. "John's told me all about you, Greg. You saw him through a really bad time. It's nice to put a face to the name." Greg felt insanely flattered.

"John, I have to go," said Huw. "The offer still stands."

"I'll think about it," replied John, smiling.

Huw took his leave and John watched him go. He couldn't help himself but when he looked back at Greg, Greg had the most fatuous grin on his face. John frowned.

"What?"

"Come off it! You're a bit of a dark horse, Doctor Watson. Are you seeing him?"

"No," said John. "We've been flirting up a storm. He asked me out again tonight but…I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"Bollocks. Go out and have some fun. Christ knows you deserve it. And he seems really nice, he could do you the power of good."

"He is really nice," admitted John "Bloody good doctor, he's an absolute genius with kids."

"So, go for it. You should be happy with someone that can love you back."

John threw his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay, I'll go. We'll probably end up talking shop all night, anyway."

"Killjoy," teased Greg. He put his hand in his coat pocket and produced two CD's. "Yours, I believe. Found them down the back of the bed in the spare room the other day, I thought you might like them back."

"Brilliant, I wondered where they'd gone," smiled John. "Thanks."

"Not like I was doing much," said Greg morosely. "I'm reduced to cleaning out bedrooms and arranging things in alphabetical order when I'm off work."

John tried to look sympathetic but couldn't stop grinning. They both jumped at a harsh screech which came from somewhere in John's vicinity.

"Shit, it's the trauma bleep. I've got to go. See you Friday?"

"Sure. Same time," smiled Greg as John hurried off.

Greg stood up and made his way out of the hospital back to the car park. He hadn't been kidding when he told John he was at a loose end. Mycroft was still away, had been away for weeks and Greg missed him like hell, and until he came back, that's all he could do.

Later that night John Watson walked into the bar of the White Swan. Huw was sitting with his back to the door. He was wearing black jeans and a green polo shirt that matched his eyes and showed off the breadth of his shoulders. John walked over and sat beside him. He would always treasure the look of surprise and sheer delight on Huw's face when he saw who it was.

"I don't believe it!" Huw exclaimed. "You only bloody turned up!"

John smiled as he said "Shut up and buy me a pint, will you? I'm gasping."

When Huw returned from the bar John took a deep draught from his pint glass and sighed with pleasure. "I needed that,"

"So, I gathered," replied Huw. "Look, John, I know I asked you out but don't feel you have to treat this as a date. It can be anything you want it to be. Two blokes having a pint and a chat, anything. I understand what you went through with your friend, that kind of hurt doesn't heal overnight. I'll be just as happy either way."

John put his hand over Huw's where it rested on the table.

"It's time I moved on," said John quietly, his eyes never leaving Huw's or leaving him in any doubt of his sincerity. "And I want you to help me with that. I want this to be a proper date. And I'd like there to be a lot more of them. Is that okay?"

"It's more than okay," replied Huw, taking John's other hand. "It's brilliant."

The two men looked at each other in perfect understanding.

It was two o'clock in the morning when Greg's phone rang, jerking him into wakefulness.

"Woozat?" he mumbled, squinting at the screen.

"And good morning to you too, Gregory."

"Mycroft? It's the middle of the night. Where the actual fuck are you?"

"Somewhere over Europe, apologies for the lateness of the call."

"That's okay, I was beginning to wonder if you'd defected."

"Not when I have you to come back to, Gregory." Mycroft's voice was a seductive purr and Greg was wide awake now.

"And are you coming home?" he asked, trying not to sound too needy.

"I'll be back in London later today. I thought you might like to join me for dinner."

"Come to my house," said Greg firmly. "I'll cook and I'll threaten anyone at work who thinks about phoning me with ritual disembowelment."

"Sounds perfect," sighed Mycroft. "I will see you later then. Oh, and Gregory?"

"Yes?"

"I missed you."

Greg found himself with a silent phone. He lay back down, smiling with anticipation.

It was two o'clock in the morning and John turned over in bed, snuggling closer to his bed mate. Huw kissed him awkwardly on the ear and held him tighter.

John had surprised himself that night but he had absolutely no regrets for it had been wonderful, all of it.

He was smiling as he drifted off to sleep.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

A/N: spoilers, warnings etc. in Chapter One. Mature themes in this one, folks. Be warned.

Mycroft resisted the urge to sigh. He was stuck in the Cabinet Office attempting to debrief the Prime Minister on the time he had spent in China. The tiresome man was being deliberately obtuse he was sure. He couldn't have made himself any plainer. Mycroft sneaked a glance at his pocket watch. Damn. He hoped it wasn't going to take much longer. Greg was waiting for him and the thought made Mycroft tingle with anticipation.

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes. Am I keeping you from something?"

Mycroft gritted his teeth. Busted.

"Actually, I have a dinner engagement and I really don't want to be late for it." The PM looked surprised.

"Shall we press on?" urged Mycroft.

It took another half an hour before the PM called a halt, deciding to reconvene the next day. Mycroft was out of the office like a shot.

On the drive over Mycroft realised he was nervous, though he was sure he had no need to be. He knew that Greg had held back and had been infinitely patient with Mycroft's inexperience. He had learned a lot and hoped he would never stop learning.

Greg answered the door to his knock, put his arms around Mycroft and kissed him warmly.

"Welcome back," he said as he closed the front door behind them.

"I missed you so much," admitted Mycroft. Any doubts he had had about this melted away as he held Greg close to him. All he felt was security, warmth and, oh yes, desire. It flowered slowly as Greg kissed him again.

"Diner will be ruined," he felt bound to mention.

"Good point," said Greg, smiling." Go and sit in the living room, it'll be ready in five minutes."

Mycroft slipped off his coat and hung it on the rack as Greg disappeared into the kitchen. Mycroft had never been in Greg's living room before and he was curious. It was tastefully decorated in navy and cream with a matching carpet. Mycroft sat on a lumpy sofa admiring the art on the walls. Some were framed reproductions but there was a small cluster of pencil sketches on the far wall that were stunning in their execution.

Mycroft got up for a closer look and was surprised to see himself looking at, well, himself. Though he was quite sure he wasn't that handsome in real life. Next to him was a study of Sherlock and John so perfect it looked like they had been frozen in time, another showed Molly Hooper looking impossibly glamorous and a few of other people Mycroft didn't recognise. He was captivated. He turned to find Greg watching him, looking a bit shame-faced, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"You drew these?" asked Mycroft.

"Yes, it's just a hobby."

"They're wonderful. Is there no end to your talents?"

"Maybe. Depends how you like my cooking. Dinner's ready."

They ate in the kitchen, sitting on mismatched chairs at a table covered in scratches but Mycroft couldn't have cared less. The food was lovely and the wine Greg had chosen complemented it perfectly.

They talked as they ate, the intimacy of the situation heightened Mycroft's awareness of being seduced.

Greg held his hand on the table as they finished the last of the wine, his strong fingers caressing the soft skin on the inside of Mycroft's wrist. Mycroft could feel himself blushing, hating the fair skin that made it so obvious.

"I want you," said Greg softly.

"Then let's not waste any more time," answered Mycroft, standing up and letting Greg lead the way.

Greg kissed him on every stair on the way to the bedroom and again, once inside, his hands busy unfastening and unbuttoning, exposing Mycroft's naked skin, laying him down on the bed while Greg slid out of his own clothes and climbed in beside him.

Greg propped himself up on one elbow as he surveyed Mycroft's lean frame and his creamy freckled skin flushed with his arousal.

"You're fucking beautiful," he sighed as he took Mycroft in his arms.

Mycroft hadn't known what to expect but his most fevered imaginings couldn't hold a candle to what he was seeing and feeling now, Greg's hands and mouth mapping every inch of his body, making him groan shamelessly at every newly-discovered erogenous zone.

Greg in his turn encouraging Mycroft to explore him, Mycroft taking pride at every evoked sigh and stifled moan.

Then Greg found their perfect rhythm, clenched hands and glistening skin, whispered obscenities and perfect friction which seems to last both a heartbeat and an eternity until Mycroft's hips lifted from the mattress as he climaxed.

"Oh, love," he cried. That was more than enough to fly Greg off the edge of the world, both of them breathless and sweat-soaked as they collapsed onto the pillows.

Greg pulled the duvet over them both as Mycroft settled into his arms as though they had been sharing a bed for years.

"You were incredible," he said to Greg. "I never dreamt it could be like that."

Greg just smiled and held him closer. "Will you stay?" asked Greg.

"Yes, of course. There isn't anywhere else I'd rather be."

Greg closed his eyes, already half-asleep but Mycroft lay awake, reliving every second of what had just happened between them.

Time moved on, carrying them with it but as long as he was awake, it was still tonight, here, in this bed, and that was enough.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

A/N: Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One.

Greg paused in the doorway of his bedroom the next morning. Mycroft as still asleep on his side, facing the door. Greg couldn't help but admire the sight of him with his tousled hair and how his long eyelashes swept his cheek as he slept.

Greg walked over to the bed and placed a mug of coffee on the bedside table then leaned over, kissing Mycroft softly on the cheek. Mycroft opened his eyes and grinned lazily.

"Morning,"

"Morning. Sorry, love. I have to go to work. There's been a stabbing in Hackney"

"Too bad," sighed Mycroft. "I suppose I should think about getting to work as well." He grimaced at the thought.

"I'll call you when I can," promised Greg.

"Come here before you rush away," said Mycroft. As he sat up the duvet puddled around his waist.

Greg went most willingly. Mycroft was still bed-warm, the musky scent of their night together clung to him, a potent mix which made the goodbye kiss last a lot longer than it should have. When Greg pulled reluctantly away he was breathing heavily.

"Any more of that and I'll have to arrest myself for lewd behaviour," Mycroft laughed, his eyes sparkling with devilment.

"You could just wave from the door next time, Gregory," That comment elicited a hard kiss from Greg.

"Just close the front door when you leave, it'll be fine. Help yourself to anything you need. Bye, love."

And he was gone.

Mycroft drank his coffee then reluctantly got out of bed, straightening and smoothing the sheets and duvet after him. It felt bizarre standing naked in someone else's bedroom so he gathered up his scattered clothes and went in search of the bathroom.

Ten minutes later he shut the door of number 42 behind him and got into the sleek black car that had just pulled up outside and headed back to Downing Street.

Greg didn't often smile at crime scenes but there was one smackhead dead on the floor and a second dead smackhead weeping contritely in the corner. He knew they'd be pushed to stretch this case out till the next tea break, so he smiled.

Forensics were finished and the body transported while smackhead number two was bundled into a panda car.

Back at the Yard, Greg had a lot of paperwork to do. He was due in court later that week and he knew how slippery defence barristers could be. However, he still found five minutes to steal away and ring Mycroft.

"How bad was it?" asked Mycroft.

"Not worth leaving my bed for. Especially not with you in it."

"I quite agree. Will you be free for dinner tonight?"

"I'm sure I will."

"Good. I'll get us a table at the Lotus Garden."

"Eight o'clock?"

"Eight o'clock," confirmed Mycroft with a smile. "And Gregory, you might consider bringing a toothbrush. I think it's time you saw where I lived. Till tonight."

"What the hell has made you so bloody happy, sir?" grumbled Donovan.

Greg didn't reply, but his smile got a whole lot wider.

The Lotus Garden was relatively quiet but the food and service were excellent.

"May I ask you something?" enquired Mycroft after the waiter had cleared their table and they had both ordered coffee.

"Go ahead. I'm pretty much an open book."

"What happened to your marriage?"

Greg sighed. He thought this topic might come up eventually but he knew Mycroft deserved the truth.

"Short version, she cheated on me. Several times with different blokes, as it turned out. So many lies, so much false hope."

He shook his head. It didn't hurt any more, but he had loved her and it had been devastating at the time.

"Long version, we probably shouldn't have got married, really. I think we loved each other and we both wanted kids. I really fancied myself as a Dad."

"But it didn't happen?"

"It didn't," admitted Greg. "We found out that, ironically enough, I'm sterile. And she wouldn't consider adoption, or IVF. She wanted my baby. I think when she realised it would only be the two of us from then on, that's when she started cheating. She also wasn't keen on the fact that I'd slept with more men than her."

Mycroft choked and Greg started to laugh.

"It's fine, Mycroft. Water under the bridge now. But it has scarred me, I won't deny it. I can't abide being lied to. Ever."

Mycroft had to look away. He knew just how well Greg could read people.

"I'll never lie to you," he said, and that was now the truth.

"I hope not," replied Greg softly. "I really do."

"You live in a bloody mansion!" exclaimed Greg later as he hung up his jacket in the entrance hall of Mycroft's house. Mycroft glared at him as he placed his coat on a coat hanger.

"Do stop exaggerating, Gregory," he said, leading Greg into what must be the living room. It was wood panelled and the furniture was typically masculine, dark woods and leather.

There was a scratching sound and a whiff of sulphur and Greg turned to see Mycroft kneeling beside the fireplace, starting the fire.

"It doesn't take long to warm up, "he explained, getting to his feet. "Let's have a drink."

Greg sat on the couch, which could easily have sat five people and watched as Mycroft poured brandy from a crystal decanter into two balloon glasses. Greg thanked him as Mycroft sat beside him. For a while the only sound was the crackling of the logs in the fireplace.

Greg took a cautious sip from his glass. It was so exquisite, he took another one.

"This is gorgeous, "he enthused. Mycroft smiled and dipped his index finger into his own glass, leaning in to place the amber drop on Greg's lips.

"That cognac is older than America," murmured Mycroft. Greg's hand came up, capturing Mycroft's so he could lick every atom of liquid from his finger and his own lips. Mycroft's eyes were half-lidded now, frank invitation plain in both blue orbs.

"You're growing very bold, "whispered Greg, pulling Mycroft onto his lap, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. "I like it."

"Only for you, Gregory," he gasped as Greg found a sensitive spot. "Only ever for you."

They were both soon naked on the couch, the fire creating shadows and light on their entwined bodies as they made slow, unhurried love, warming each other with every touch.

Later, much later when Greg was fast asleep in his bed Mycroft looked at him, his heart breaking just a little.

"I love you," he sighed under his breath. "Please don't make me break your heart."

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

A/N Spoilers, etc. in Chapter One

THREE MONTHS LATER

Greg left the court on a real high. Seeing someone who had senselessly butchered a number of innocent people just because they could get sent down for life gave him a real feeling of achievement.

He straightened his tie before giving a prepared statement to the waiting press then returned to Scotland Yard.

Everyone on his team was in a hyper mood. It was really good when they got a result like that, it made all the grunt work, long hours and sleep deprivation worthwhile. Even now a marathon drinking session in the Frog and Whistle was being planned. The Superintendent had been impressed, sparing the team a rare word of praise.

"He's sickening for something," laughed Greg. Out the corner of his eye he could see DC Smith hovering, a thick file clutched in his hand.

"What is it, Smith?"

"Sorry, sir. I thought you might want to see this."

The file he placed on Greg's desk was labelled RICHARD BROOK/JAMES MORIARTY and Greg's heart sank. He didn't want to be told about another red herring or dead end. Not today.

"Well? "he asked impatiently.

"Well, sir. I found this…"

Ten minutes later the feeling of euphoria had returned.

"Got you, you bastard," exclaimed Greg. "Smithy, I could kiss you." The poor kid looked terrified. "I'm kidding, this is excellent work. Really excellent. Now here's what else I need you to do…"

It was very late when Greg parked his car outside Mycroft's house. The gravel crunched under his feet as he approached the front door, remembering to avert his eyes to avoid being blinded by the security lights.

He took out the key that Mycroft had given him some weeks previously. There had been no fuss or fanfare, he had merely pressed the key into Greg's hand one morning saying that Greg shouldn't have to make an appointment if he wanted to see him and Greg had been quite happy with that.

As their relationship had strengthened and intensified Greg found any time spent away from Mycroft to be irksome. He had fallen harder and deeper than ever before in his life, but he just went with the flow, reluctant to disturb the equilibrium.

He let himself in to the house, shedding the problems of the day along with his overcoat and gloves. He was much later than he had intended to be but he saw, to his delight, the soft glow of light coming from the living room. Mycroft was still up and Greg couldn't wait to tell him the news.

Mycroft was sitting at his desk, tapping away at his laptop. He looked up when Greg walked in, trying and failing to hide the pleasure in his expression. Greg walked over and kissed him.

"I wasn't expecting to see you at all tonight. I thought you would still be in the pub with the rest of them," said Mycroft "That was quite a result, Gregory. I must admit, you looked incredibly handsome on TV. I don't think there was a reporter in that crowd that didn't want you."

Greg chuckled as he helped himself to Mycroft's whisky.

"You're prejudiced though," he smiled.

"Certainly not. I know exactly what they're missing and I feel sorry for them."

Greg sat down on the sofa with a groan.

"Mycroft, we've had a breakthrough in the Richard Brook case."

"Oh," Mycroft's expression was guarder." What kind of breakthrough?"

"If it plays out, Sherlock's name will be cleared. He'll be utterly vindicated."

Greg frowned. Mycroft's expression had set. "I thought you'd be pleased?"

"I am, I truly am. It's just…after all this time…I…" His eyes were suspiciously bright. "This will mean so much to me. To our parents. It's over whelming."

Greg made no comment about Mr and Mrs Holmes. What kind of parents didn't attend their own child's funeral? Greg suspected them of being utterly heartless, unable to come to terms with the shame, but he had kept that thought to himself. The whole family was weird. One son solved crimes instead of succumbing to heroin while the other basically ran the country but had never been kissed. Greg thought Mycroft's parents had a lot to answer for.

Greg got to his feet and hugged Mycroft tightly, feeling his lover's arms close around him as Mycroft buried his face in Greg's neck. Greg felt dampness there and was shocked. Only in their most intimate moments did Mycroft show any unguarded emotions. He had never seen Mycroft shed a tear, yet he was crying silently now.

"It's okay, "he ventured. Mycroft sniffed in response.

"I am being utterly ridiculous. Too much work, not enough sleep, I suppose."

"Then let's go to bed," said Greg firmly.

Upstairs Greg felt the mattress dip as Mycroft got in beside him. Greg's arms went around him automatically and he heard Mycroft's sigh of contentment. They fell asleep holding hands.

Greg was awoken the next morning by a very different Mycroft, one with stormy eyes and busy hands, one who was utterly in control. He wasn't like this very often and Greg knew from experience that the only thing to do was to lie back and, literally, enjoy the ride. It was incredibly intense and Greg was most vocal in his appreciation, devoutly thankful that Mycroft didn't have any neighbours to hear quite how loud they were.

Later that morning at breakfast Mycroft looked at Greg over the newspaper as Greg buttered his fourth slice of toast.

"It's your day off. What have you got planned? Apart from eating me out of house and home?"

"Well, I need all the energy I can get to keep up with you," teased Greg, grinning as Mycroft went absolutely scarlet. "Speaking of which, you really need to cut your bloody fingernails." Mycroft wasn't sure where to look.

Greg took a long swig of coffee. "I'm going to the cemetery. Today's my Mum's birthday and I really should go. It's been too long since I did. I thought I might pay Sherlock a visit as well. It's been a while."

"May I come with you?" asked Mycroft.

"Yeah, of course." Greg was surprised and more than a little touched. "But first I need to go to the florist. It's on the way."

It was a beautiful spring day, white fluffy clouds scudded across the azure sky as the two men walked through the cemetery gates.

"This way," said Greg, heading for one of the older sections.

Mycroft was intrigued. It was a small stone at the head of the joint grave. Greg's parents had died within a year of each other, he noted. Mycroft couldn't imagine how much pain that must have caused. He handed Greg one of the bouquets that they had bought.

"I'll leave you for a moment," murmured Mycroft and walked back to the path leaving Greg alone. Greg placed the flowers in the urn designed for that purpose, noting that the grass around the stone needed trimming and the stone itself could do with a good clean. He had been neglectful, he knew. Straightening up, he put his hands in his pockets.

"Happy birthday, Mum," he said. He never felt strange talking out loud to his parents. "I know it's been a while, but you might have known I wouldn't miss your special day and I know how much you love carnations. Dad, you'd better be looking after her, wherever you both are." He stood with his head bowed in silent contemplation for a while then said, "One more thing, before I go. That man there," he gestured towards Mycroft who was far enough away for him not to hear. "He IS the British Government. And I'm in love with him, God help me. I dunno, but I think you'd approve."

He placed his hands on his parents' headstone briefly then walked back to Mycroft who squeezed his hand in silent sympathy.

It was a much further walk to Sherlock's grave and Mycroft surprised Greg by remarking,

"You never talk about your parents. I mean, I knew they were both dead but that's all."

"See if you can deduce them then," smiled Greg. "You know me better than anyone alive."

"Is that really necessary?"

"It passes the time. Go on."

They took a few more steps before Mycroft said.

"I think you were a late baby, I know you don't have siblings and your parents were fairly old when they died. You were very close to both of them but you had no desire to follow in their footsteps. They were educated people, I would surmise that one was an artist of some description and one had a real love for English literature."

Greg laughed, a very unusual sound in a graveyard.

"Brilliant. Spot on. One was an English teacher and one was an Art teacher. But which one?"

"Mother Art, Father English?"

"Other way around. And you were doing so well, "he grinned as Mycroft glared at him. "I got my drawing skills from my Dad and my passion for Shakespeare from my Mum. And a proper sense of justice from both of them. Not bad work, Mr Holmes." Greg smiled broadly but it quickly disappeared when they reached their destination.

This time both men approached the black marble headstone. Greg knelt down and gathered up all the dead flowers that had accumulated there, laying them to one side and wiping his hands on his jeans as he stood up.

"John's been here," he said quietly.

"How do you know?"

"Single red rose with bright yellow wool tied round it. He comes every week, or at least he did. I dunno what Huw would make of that."

"They're still together?"

"Yes, they seem very happy, or they did the last Friday I saw them in the Black Dog. And John's really enjoying his work. And yet…"

"And yet, there is still a red rose here more often than not. He really loved him, didn't he?"

"Yeah, and part of him still does."

"I never really appreciated what that meant. Not until I met you," said Mycroft tenderly. "Now I do. The poor man."

Greg swallowed his astonishment and knelt again to place the flowers they had brought.

"There you go," he muttered, giving the headstone an awkward pat. "I know. Sentiment. Waste of money. Big newsflash, Sherlock. I don't give a shit. But you knew that anyway. Miss, you, mate."

Greg withdrew out of earshot sensing Mycroft might feel a bit embarrassed but that wasn't what was making Mycroft Holmes feel like he was dying inside. It had started last night and he knew it was only going to get worse. And the fault was all his.

He knelt, resting his forehead against the cold black marble and whispered.

"Have patience, little brother. It won't be long now, I promise."

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

A/N: Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One

SHERLOCK HOLMES VINDICATED

NET 'TEC ACTUAL GENIUS

MORIARTY WAS REAL

THE NATION DEMANDS ANSWERS FROM SCOTLAND YARD.

"Of course, it fucking does," growled Greg. "Fucking Daily Mail. They were howling for his blood a year ago."

Disgusted, he threw the paper at the waste bin and missed which made him swear again. He switched on the TV but all that was on was the canonisation of Sherlock Holmes. In despair, he switched it off.

Mycroft came down the stairs as Greg swore at another newspaper headline.

"It's all over the papers," said Greg gesturing to the pile. "Everyone loves your brother again. Too fucking late but I suppose you get points for covering your arse at this stage."

Mycroft's nose wrinkled as he poured himself some coffee and perused one of the more lurid headlines.

"Yes," he said solemnly. "Poor Sherlock. However, you and your team did an incredible job, Gregory. Everyone knows the truth now."

Greg's furrowed brow cleared and he smiled. It was like watching the sun come out. Mycroft swallowed the last of his coffee and consulted his pocket watch.

"I must go, my love. Meeting at Vauxhall Cross."

"Take care," said Greg, kissing him goodbye.

Greg watched the long, black car pull away and poured himself more coffee. In a minute, he would have to go to Scotland Yard to deal with the media shitstorm that was about to engulf him and his team both. He had warned them all to be prepared, he just hoped no one cracked under the pressure.

"Mr Holmes, the Director will see you now."

Mycroft followed the young man away from the waiting area and along the corridor to the office of the Director of MI6.

The two men smiled and shook hands, the underling dismissed with a wave of the Director's hand.

"James, it's been an absolute age," said Mycroft warmly, settling himself into one of the comfortable chairs across from the desk.

"It has," the other man replied. "You look well, Mycroft. In the pink, even"

The Director of MI6 was a large, heavy-set man, almost identical in age to Mycroft. He had thick black hair and beetling black eyebrows over icy grey eyes which had led to some of the more courageous members of the intelligence community to nickname him 'Lenoid'. He had been a superb field agent and his rise through the ranks had been meteoric.

Mycroft knew the man did not waste time on trivia. If he had requested this meeting it wasn't to discuss Mycroft's health.

"Blooming, thank you. Now, James. Why did you want to see me?"

Silently the Director handed him a file marked FOR YOUR EYES ONLY. Mycroft opened it and read through its meagre contents swiftly. Panic blossomed in his gut but he forced himself to remain calm.

"This is accurate?" he asked.

"As of yesterday, certainly. Our team has located him, now they need someone with local knowledge to help with the extraction."

Mycroft frowned. "Did you have someone in mind?"

"Yes, you. None of our current I. O's are as fluent in the language and they certainly can't read the political situation like you can. Do what you do best, Mycroft. Talk to people and get them to do what you want. If you don't, you may never see him alive again."

"For God's sake, James! You of all people know that there's nothing I wouldn't do for him!"

"Yes, you've proved that already. And he has been extremely useful to us as you promised. Was it really necessary to seduce the Detective Inspector though?"

"It wasn't like that," whispered Mycroft.

"Nice move, though. He doesn't give up on trying to clear your brother's name in case he disappoints you. And now the way is clear for the return of the prodigal son."

"Go to hell, James. Just make sure everything is in place for tomorrow. I'll show myself out."

Back at the office Mycroft called Anthea, his assistant, in to speak with her. She stood, perfectly poised, with her notebook and pencil.

"For heaven's sake, sit down. Have you taken your medication?"

Anthea had long ago stopped being surprised by her boss's observational skills.

"Yes, sir. Some days are worse than others. Today is not a good day."

"I'll send you home. No, don't argue, just listen. I'm going away tomorrow to get Sherlock. He's been located and they need help with the extraction."

There was a stricken look on Anthea's face and she clutched at her side. That was how she had been betrayed as a field agent. Once her wounds had healed as much as they ever would, she had come to work for Mycroft. She had never regretted it and he had her undying loyalty.

"He needs to come home, "said Mycroft softly. "Moriarty's network is finished, he will be of much more use here. Oh, I'm just going as an interpreter," he continued, correctly guessing what was distressing her. "I won't be in any danger. One more thing before you go. Book me a table for two at Le Cirque for tonight. Eight o'clock should do."

Anthea's eyes widened. Le Cirque was one of the most exclusive restaurants in London. Eyewatering expensive and grandiose and usually packed. Not really her boss's kind of place at all.

Mycroft looked directly into her eyes. She saw both his pain and despair and could have wept for him.

"When one might be saying goodbye forever, I feel it should be in the most opulent surroundings."

"As you wish, sir."

Mycroft broke eye contact and fired up his laptop. Slowly Anthea walked back to her desk to make the necessary calls.

Mycroft picked up his phone and Greg answered on the second ring.

"Hi, love,"

"Gregory, something's happened and I have to leave the country for a while. Tomorrow, to be precise."

"That's a bit sudden," said Greg.

"Sometimes world events take us over. Can I see you tonight?"

"You'd better."

"Le Cirque and eight o'clock. And Gregory?"

"What?"

"Wear a tie, darling. They won't let you in otherwise."

Greg was laughing as he hung up.

Greg tried not to gawk but he had never seen so many famous people outside of an awards ceremony and this was real life, not TV. When the waiter guided him to Mycroft's table, the man himself astonished Greg by giving him a long, lingering kiss, heedless of who was watching.

Greg thought Mycroft looked tired and strained. The smile he was wearing never quite reached his eyes.

"So, where are you off to this time?" asked Greg after they had placed their orders.

"I'm sorry, I can't say. I promised I wouldn't lie to you and I'm not. It is of the utmost secrecy, Gregory. You'll just have to trust me."

"I do, you should know that. Will it be dangerous?"

"It may well be but, on balance, I think not."

"Okay, looks like I'll be doing a lot of overtime till you get back."

Their conversation edged away from uncomfortable topics. Mycroft held his hand on the table and Greg was aware of something building between them as they talked. When the food arrived, Mycroft looked at his plate then directed his burning gaze towards Greg. Greg felt his nostrils flare, he could almost feel the wanting. And suddenly he was no better.

"I'm not really hungry," murmured Greg. "Let's go home instead."

By the time the taxi dropped them off at Mycroft's house, the sexual tension between them was almost unbearable. In the hallway, Greg nudged him against the wall as they kissed hungrily leaving a trail of clothes on the way to the bedroom where Greg pushed his lover onto the bed and ravished him with his tongue and his teeth until Mycroft was practically begging Greg to finish him.

"Christ!" exclaimed Mycroft when he was finally able to speak again.

"We're not done yet," promised Greg.

It was almost dawn when they were finally sated. Greg rested his head on Mycroft's chest, idly stroking the smattering of dark red hair that grew there. Mycroft would be leaving soon and Greg didn't want to miss a second. And there was something else. Now was as good a time as any.

"There's something I need to tell you. I love you. I really, really love you."

Mycroft's smile was the most beautiful thing Greg had ever seen. Just for a second it looked as though he had laid down whatever burden was making him so unhappy.

"Oh, Gregory," he murmured. "I was yours before you kissed me for the first time. I love nothing in this world as much as you. Remember that."

"I will."

Greg was fast asleep when Mycroft left, stealing out of his own house like a thief. Saying a proper goodbye would have been too much for him to bear.

He wondered if, if something went wrong, it would result in his own death and speculated if it would be less painful; that what he would endure when he returned.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A/N: Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One.

Greg was fast asleep when an unusual noise woke him. You didn't survive long as a copper if you didn't take notice of things like that, like a wrong note in a symphony.

He got out of bed and pulled on his trousers and a jumper. He crept barefoot along the landing, grasping a sword from the suit of armour that stood at the top of the stairs. He had laughed when he had first seen it. He wasn't laughing now. He heard another noise and walked silently down the stairs. Whoever it was, they had picked the wrong house to burgle.

The door burst open and Greg hefted the sword. He thought he was seeing things, he must be still dreaming, surely. Mycroft was there supporting another man dressed in tattered clothes. Mycroft looked exhausted and unkempt. As for the other man…

The sword clattered to the floor as Mycroft croaked.

"Help me, Gregory. Please."

It was Sherlock. Greg couldn't believe it. He rushed over and took his weight, horrified at how thin he was, how bedraggled and how he seemed to be burning up.

"Graham, it's wonderful to see you."

"It's Greg, you pillock." But he grinned as Sherlock hugged him and felt the other man's smile against his neck. Greg helped him onto the sofa where Sherlock stretched out his long legs. He seemed to be having trouble breathing, every exhalation was glassy.

"He needs to go to hospital," said Greg worriedly.

"There's a doctor on the way, don't worry." Mycroft looked from Greg to his brother, his expression unreadable.

"He's alive. Fucking hell, I need to sit down." Greg slumped into a nearby chair.

"You've got some explaining to do," he said to Mycroft.

He felt numb. People just didn't come back from the dead like that. There was a suspicion growing in the back of his not-quite-awake-yet mind and the fact that Mycroft refused to make eye contact made it grow even faster.

The doorbell rang, and Mycroft went to answer it, returning with an older woman in a severely cut black suit carrying a medical bag. She looked at Greg and asked if he would leave, for the sake of Sherlock's dignity.

He walked slowly back up the stairs, splashed his face with cold water and put on his socks and shoes. His suspicion had turned to sick certainty and he wasn't sure he ever wanted to go back downstairs again. After what seemed like an Ice Age, he heard Mycroft's voice calling his name.

In the living room, Sherlock looked a little better and the doctor had disappeared. He also appeared to be asleep and that suited Greg just fine.

"Is he going to be okay?" asked Greg.

Mycroft stood there, his hands clenching and unclenching.

"Eventually, yes. He's been tortured and severely beaten. Some of his wounds have become infected but antibiotics will clear that up. He needs food and rest now, that's all."

"All this time. All this time he's been alive and you knew. You fucking knew, didn't you. Didn't you?" Greg was furious.

"Yes, I knew. I couldn't tell anyone, Gregory. I'm sorry."

"Everyone who loved him. We were kept in the dark and fed a load of bullshit! Left to grieve for him. And what the fuck for? No, don't tell me any more of your bollocks. Just don't."

Mycroft couldn't move. Greg's face was contorted with fury, there was no loving kindness now in his soft, brown eyes. Mycroft was looking at the face of the man he hoped he would never see. This was the face of Detective Inspector Lestrade, the one the felons saw, the one he wore when he wasn't taking any more of their shit.

"Secrets and lies," snarled Greg. "Why did I ever think it would be different with you? What else have you lied to me about, eh?"

"Nothing, Gregory, I assure you…I couldn't tell you about Sherlock," said Mycroft, desperately trying to get through to him. "It was too much of a risk."

"Brilliant! Now I'm a fucking security threat! Did you not tell me so I wouldn't have to worry my pretty little head about it?" Greg's lip curled in contempt. Mycroft didn't answer. This was so much worse that he had expected.

"Did you ever love me? Or was I just something to do to pass the time? "asked Greg, refusing to look at Mycroft.

"I do love you," said Mycroft, solemnly, eyeing the angry colour that had stained Greg's face. He hadn't imagined such fury, but then he had never been good with other people and their emotions.

There was a long period of silence, punctured only by Greg's heavy breathing. He sounded like he had just run a marathon. Then he drew himself up to his full height.

"Fuck it, "he said. He was inches away from Mycroft now and Mycroft was actually frightened.

"We're done," said Greg.

With a last contemptuous gesture, he took out his key and dropped in on the floor at Mycroft's feet.

The front door slammed and Mycroft heard the screech of tyres on gravel as Greg drove away.

Mycroft dropped to his knees as the pain hit, covering his face with his hands. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and clutched at it, his only anchor to sanity, or so it felt.

"I'm sorry, brother," murmured Sherlock. Mycroft was incapable of replying.

Greg got as far as Vauxhall and had to pull over. He literally couldn't see any more. He switched off the engine, put his head on the steering wheel and wept.

TBC.


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

A/N Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One.

John Watson left the hospital by the staff entrance. It had been an exhausting weekend and he was looking forward to a hot bath and some uninterrupted kip. When the saw the long black Mercedes pull up beside him he knew those things would have to wait. For a brief minute, he considered telling the driver to take a hike but he knew, from bitter experience, that the British Government didn't take no for an answer. With a resigned sigh, he got in the back of the car and fastened the seatbelt.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson," said the driver.

"Hey. Can we make this quick?"

"Not up to me, sir."

It wasn't a long journey. John stared at the Gothic pile they'd arrived at and got out.

"It helps if you ring the doorbell," suggested the driver.

"Right."

John squared his shoulders and walked across the gravel. He didn't need to ring the bell, the front door opened as if he were expected.

"Come in, John."

"Mycroft! What are you doing here?"

"I live here. Follow me,"

John followed the ramrod-straight figure down the hall. Before he opened the door, Mycroft turned to John and said,

"You should prepare yourself for a shock, John. May I just say that I am very sorry. You'll want answers. Just know this, if there had been any other way…anyway, go in, please."

John was curious and not a little perturbed. Close up, Sherlock's brother looked haggard, pale faced and red-eyed as if he had been crying. John preceded Mycroft into the room and stopped dead.

This was a hallucination brought on by being on-call, lack of sleep and desperate, helpless longing. It couldn't be real. Sherlock Holmes wasn't sitting there in a pair of pyjamas miles too big for him, he couldn't be. Then the vision spoke.

"Hello, John. It's all right, I'm real. And very much alive, thanks to my big brother here."

The bastard could still read him like a book.

"You're actually here. I don't…I can't…" Rage and disbelief mixed were making John stutter. Sherlock got slowly to his feet, wincing from his many injuries.

"Go ahead," he said. "I know you'd love to punch me. I'm adequately braced."

John's fist did indeed fly and slammed into the wood panelling behind Sherlock's head.

"You utter bastard," he yelled, rubbing his bruised knuckles. "All this time and not a fucking word! We all mourned for you, Sherlock! How the fuck did you do it, eh? How?"

"Will you sit with me?" asked Sherlock diffidently, gesturing towards the couch. "I will try to explain. But I think you need to know the why before I try and explain the how."

Mycroft left them to it, going into the kitchen and switching on the coffee maker. He had a feeling it would be a long night.

Two days since he had brought his brother back, forty-eight hours, since he had seen Greg and two thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes since he had last felt at home in this house. He was being haunted by memories that ambushed him at every turn. Even this one where he had taught Greg that the finest coffee doesn't come in jars.

The bathroom where a disposable razor and ordinary toothbrush sat companionably on the shelf beside his own electric brush and pearl-handled open razor.

The bedroom where they had spent so many ecstatic nights. Mycroft had given up his virginity without a second thought as it was his Gregory who was doing the taking but it was in this bed where he had been a most willing pupil and Greg the most patient and passionate of teachers. This was where Greg had told him he loved him. He had meant every word of his reply, even thinking about it now made his eyes fill.

It was the living room he couldn't bear to spend any time in. There, if anywhere, was where he and Greg had cemented their relationship, where they had talked, laughed, spent time in comfortable silence, watched TV, drank wine and watched pictures forming in the leaping flames of the open fire, held each other close and kissed for the longest of times.

It was all dust and ashes without him, Mycroft had realised and he didn't think he could bear it.

He could hear John's voice raise again and the reassuring grumble of his brother's smooth tones. Time to intervene, he thought.

"I don't know what to think any more, Sherlock," yelled John as Mycroft returned to the living room. Sherlock had the battered look of someone who had been shouted at non-stop for some minutes.

John…" It was an entreaty.

"I promised myself one thing if I ever got my miracle, you know," continued John.

"And what was that?" asked Sherlock.

John didn't reply, merely leaned in and kissed his best friend full on the mouth. Sherlock's gasp was audible and there was a sad smile on Mycroft's face as he watched his little brother relax into his first proper kiss, Sherlock's hands tangling in John's hair as John held him.

"I love you, you bastard," said John firmly. " I'm glad I had the chance to say it."

"I've loved you since they day we met, John."

John inclined his head, a half-smile on his face. His phone buzzed, he picked it up and his whole demeanour changed.

"And now I have to go and tell the sweetest, kindest man in the world that I can't move in with him after all because I'm in love with someone else."

Mycroft doubted that John could have surprised his brother more.

"You've got a boyfriend?"

"Not for much longer," said John, standing up.

"I'll get a car to take you home, John," offered Mycroft.

"It's fine, I'll walk. Thanks anyway."

John turned again to Sherlock before he left.

"I'll be here tomorrow after shift. You've still got a lot of grovelling to do."

Mycroft saw John to the door.

"A word of advice, Doctor Watson. I know you love my brother but beware of people who pretend they do not have a heart, for when they fall in love, people always end up getting hurt. He's done that already."

"I know that, "said John. "I'm willing to take that risk"

"Very well. Goodnight then."

"See you tomorrow."

Mycroft returned to the living room after closing and locking the front door.

"He handled that a lot better than I expected, little brother."

"Oh, he's still royally pissed off at me. Explaining things helped a lot."

"At least you got the chance," said Mycroft bitterly.

Greg Lestrade was utterly hammered. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this drunk. He couldn't remember much that night, most of his brain cells were gently marinating in a soup of beer and cheap whisky.

Two days and he still found himself physically checking to see if his heart had literally been torn from his chest. It certainly felt that way.

He'd had a genial argument about music with DC Smith earlier and he got up off the couch to find the book that would settle it. He grabbed his sketchbook by mistake and swore as the pages fluttered onto the carpet.

Clumsily he knelt down and picked the pictures up, replacing them with the meticulous care of the truly pissed. Some were works in progress but one…

He froze. This one he had almost forgotten about. Mycroft had insisted he kept it hidden for his, Greg's, eyes only.

His hands trembled as he held it and remembered how he had persuaded Mycroft to pose nude for him, not long after they had started sleeping together. How erotic it had been to watch him undress here in this very room. How he had sprawled elegantly on the lumpy sofa with a come-hither expression on his face that had made it almost impossible for Greg to concentrate on what he was doing. How pleased he had been with the result and how Mycroft had taken it from him and frowned.

"What?" Greg had asked. "You don't like it?"

"It's very good," Mycroft had conceded. "But Gregory, there's no way I'm that beautiful."

"You are to me, "Greg had said, meaning every word but there had been doubt still in Mycroft's eyes.

"Oh, you really don't believe that, do you?" Mycroft had shaken his head, slightly embarrassed. Greg had pulled him close and given him a long, lingering kiss.

"Believe it."

Hot tears spattered the picture as the memory faded.

"I can't forgive you," said Greg softly. "But I still fucking love you. There's no coming back from that, is there?"

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A/N This is a chapterette, dedicated to egmon73 who felt as bad for Huw Williams as I did. Mystrade shippers, feel free to skip this one, normal service will be resumed in Chapter 14.

It wasn't a long walk to Huw's place but by the time he got there, John was even more confused than he had been when he left Mycroft's, the thoughts whirling through his head like confetti at a wedding.

Muttering under his breath, John opened the door to Huw's flat and went inside. It was late, maybe he could put this off till tomorrow…

"Is that you, John?"

"Nope, it's a burglar."

"Very funny, Watson. Get in here."

"Actually, can you come out?"

Huw emerged from the bedroom wearing a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, his usual sleeping attire. His smile quickly disappeared when he saw the expression on John's face.

"What's happened?"

John just looked at him helplessly. Until that night, he had thought himself in love, blissfully happy and content. Now all that was in jeopardy because his beautiful mess of a best friend, the real love of his life had stopped playing dead and had come home.

Huw's expression grew worried.

"Oh, cariad. What's the matter?"

That beautiful Welsh endearment made John swallow hard. However he spun this, Huw was going to get hurt. Quickly then, he thought, like ripping off a sticking plaster.

"Sherlock's alive. I've just come from his brother's house. He's really not dead."

Huw's eyes narrowed as John's words sunk in.

"Shit, "he exclaimed. "I presume he had an explanation for why he abandoned you for nearly two years?"

"Yeah, a bloody good one, as it turns out," smiled John, remembering.

"And you've forgiven him? What am I saying, of course you have."

"There isn't anything I couldn't forgive him for. Not even that. He's my best friend and I still love him. Huw, I am so, so sorry."

Huw shrugged, the corners of his mouth turning down.

"I'm sorry too, John. It was great though, wasn't it? You and I?"

"It really was," agreed John. Huw gave something between a laugh and a sniff.

"Funny though, I always thought that if I lost you, it'd be to a woman. Never dreamt someone could come back from the dead like that."

John couldn't bear to see the man that he had adored so upset. He closed the distance between them, wiping the escaped tears from Huw's face with his fingers.

"He was the only person that could ever have come between us, I swear it. And you deserve to be happy, you really do."

"I was happy with you," said Hugh firmly. "Dreams are for children, I should know that by now."

"Don't…" whispered John. He was close enough now to see every crystal drop clinging to Huw's eyelashes.

He never meant to kiss him, or so he told himself later. One minute they were face to face, the next in each other's arms, Huw's mouth hot and demanding on John's. They tumbled into the still-warm bed, nothing on their minds but each other and making it last, every touch, every caress tinged with a sense of finality. Slowly they made love, the way they both liked, Huw's bone-deep cry of fulfilment igniting John's own.

It was starting to get light as John stirred from Huw's embrace.

"I have to go, "he said flatly. "I'm on duty at seven."

Huw's eyes were still wet but he was smiling.

"Don't ever regret this, cariad. It was the perfect way to say goodbye."

"Yes, it was," said John, mustering a smile. "Absolutely perfect."

When John had left, Huw dragged himself out of bed to shower and dress. His heart was sore but he was philosophical about it. John Watson wasn't the first man to break his heart and wouldn't be the last.

For now, he had a job to do, ward rounds and clinics. He could cry as much as he wanted to later.

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A/N Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One.

THREE WEEKS LATER

Anthea silently pushed the box of paper hankies across her desk towards the distraught Junior Minister who grabbed a handful and wiped her face, smearing her mascara.

"That bloody man!" she hissed. Anthea sighed. This was the third one this week. Her boss had suddenly developed great delight in terrorising half the Cabinet and reducing the rest to tears.

"His code name shouldn't be Antarctica any more, he's not the iceman."

"Satan isn't one they use, apparently," said Anthea. The other woman snorted with laughter.

"What's wrong with him?"

Anthea shrugged but she knew only too well. Mycroft Holmes just hadn't been the same since his brother had returned supposedly from the dead. It had been sensational news. Anthea thought Sherlock and John had coped admirably with the increased press scrutiny. The news hadn't done anything for her boss's temper and, frankly, she was sick of it. Another clue had been the standing down of all surveillance on Detective Inspector Lestrade. Her boss was nothing if not discreet but she had been able to put two and two together. It had obviously been painful for him but it didn't give Mycroft Holmes the right to ride roughshod over everyone else's feelings.

The Minister took her soggy leave and not a minute too soon as Mycroft came storming out of his office and demanded to know where the Prime Minister was.

Anthea thought her boss looked awful. The diet of tea and cigarettes that he seemed to exist on now had made all his suits hang on him and the ridiculous hours he kept had put black circles under his eyes and red veins in them.

"I don't know, sir. He must have been held up. Perhaps Question Time overran?" Mycroft snorted, unamused.

"Send him in directly."

"Of course."

Mycroft slammed his way back into his office and within seconds, the Prime Minister arrived, looking both shifty and nervous.

Privately Anthea thought the man was an utter buffoon but there was no arguing with democracy.

"Go straight in, Prime Minister. He's waiting for you."

He licked his lips nervously and straightened his tie as he went through the door, giving her an absent nod for her courtesy which made her hope that her boss would make this one cry as well.

She had just fired up her laptop again when the Prime Minister came flying out of Mycroft's office. He was chalk white and terrified.

"Something's wrong," he gasped. "Get an ambulance!"

Anthea was already halfway in and was appalled at the sight that greeted her.

Mycroft Holmes slumped in his chair, his complexion grey with sweat pouring down his face as he clutched at the left side of his chest. For a second, his tortured breathing was the only sound in the room.

As the stuttering Prime Minister made the 999 call Anthea loosened Mycroft's tie and the top two buttons of his shirt. Her fingers found his pulse which was thready and erratic and she felt sick.

"Hold on, sir," she said, clasping his hand. "The ambulance will be here soon." She didn't know if he could hear her, just one name escaped his lips as the sound of clattering feet announced the arrival of the paramedics. She stood back to let them do their job.

One performed an ECG. He squinted at the printout and shook his head at his partner.

"Inconclusive," he muttered as he placed the oxygen mask over Mycroft's face. "Mr Holmes, I think you might have had a heart attack. I'm going to give you something for the pain and we're taking you to hospital," He placed a blue cannula in the back of Mycroft's hand and injected the morphine.

"Harley Street," said the Prime Minister, wringing his hands. "The Clinic there will be waiting for him."

"I'm coming with him, "announced Anthea. The paramedic merely nodded as they loaded Mycroft onto the stretcher and wheeled him into the waiting ambulance.

Blue lights and sirens made short work of the London traffic and Mycroft was unloaded into the care of a large number of anxious-looking people at the hospital. Anthea stayed until she knew exactly what was wrong with her boss and that his brother was on his way before she left Harley Street and returned to the office.

She made two further visits to different departments in MI6, made a telephone call to the Prime Minister who was out of his mind with worry then left the office. She flagged down a cab and settled into the back.

"Where to?" asked the cabbie.

"Baker Street, please."

Anthea rang the doorbell of 221B and waited. It was eventually answered by a short, motherly woman who ushered Anthea inside. This was Mrs Hudson. Mycroft had nothing but praise for her for putting up with his irritating little brother.

"I'm afraid Sherlock isn't here, dear. He's had to dash off."

"I'm actually here to see Doctor Watson," replied Anthea. Mrs Hudson looked surprised.

"He's upstairs, I'll show you up."

She knocked on the door and ushered Anthea in.

"John, a lady to see you."

Anthea had met John Watson only once, the night Mycroft had, in his Machiavellian way, decided to find out exactly what this ex-soldier wanted from his brother. She remembered how he had tried to chat her up on the way back to Baker Street and smiled. He looked very different now, he had let his hair grow out of its military crop and he was casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He had an air of deep contentment about him, something you only get when you are truly, deeply happy. Anthea knew that he and Sherlock were now living together in every sense of the word and was pleased for them.

"Hello, it's Anthea, isn't it?"

"Hello, John."

"Sherlock's at the hospital. His brother…"

"I know. I was there when it happened. It's really you I came to see."

"Oh, right. Tea?"

"Please"

When she was sat with a mugful of strong tea in Sherlock's chair, she started to talk.

"Mycroft is going to be okay, eventually. It wasn't a heart attack. It was stress cardiomyopathy. He'll be out in a couple of days."

John looked worried.

"Fucking hell. But that means… Why would Mycroft have Broken Heart Syndrome?"

"I know I've got no right to ask this, but I'd like you to go and speak to Inspector Lestrade. I know that you two are friends and he will listen to you where he wouldn't listen to anyone else."

"Greg? Why on earth would I talk to him about Mycroft?"

Anthea smiled at John's consternation.

"Oh, he's good. He's a real loss to the Service, Greg Lestrade. You really had no idea, did you?"

"About what?"

"That he and my boss have been lovers for ages."

John's eyes were like saucers.

"Christ, you think you know someone…"

Carefully Anthea put her cup down.

"My boss has been miserable ever since Sherlock came home. They must have broken up at the same time. You know why Sherlock did what he did, you need to go and convince the Inspector to at least hear Mycroft out. "

John frowned. "You're very involved in all this for a PA."

"I owe Mycroft Holmes everything," she said solemnly. John watched mesmerised as she unfastened her silk blouse, pulling the tails of it out of her waistband and opening it. He gasped at the sight of rugged scar tissue crisscrossing her abdomen and he touched his left shoulder in unconscious sympathy.

"I was a field agent for MI6 once upon a time, "she told him as she refastened her blouse. "That was the result of betrayal. I lost six feet of intestine, two ribs and a vertebra. Mycroft Holmes took me on as his assistant, looked after me and made sure I got the very best medical attention there is. Without him, I don't know where I would be. Please, John. I can't bear to see him so distraught. It wasn't my name he said when he thought he was dying,"

"It was Greg's" said John, completing her sentence. "I'll go now. I owe Greg my life, you know. Let's see if I can't knock some sense into him."

On the doorstep of 221B they shook hands.

"Good luck, John. And thank you."

"Don't thank me just yet, "muttered John. "The hard part is still to come."

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A/N Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One.

Mycroft awoke in a semi-darkened room attached to a piece of equipment that wouldn't have looked out of place on the Space Station. His mouth felt like he had been licking carpet all night and his head ached, yet everything was bathed in a rosy glow. Someone just outside of his view cleared their throat. Hope flared treacherously in Mycroft's chest, but it was his little brother who actually spoke.

"So, not dead after all, brother dear?"

"Sherlock," he croaked. "What happened?"

"I got a phone call to say you were on your deathbed. Thought I'd come and make absolutely sure, but you can never trust the government to do what it says. You disproved your own mythology. You do have a heart and, apparently, it's broken.

"Oh, lord," cringed Mycroft. "How embarrassing." For some reason, that made him grin like an idiot.

"For both of us. I don't want a big brother who's a walking cliché. It's quite pathetic, really. What happened to 'Don't getting involved, emotions are dangerous, we should avoid them'. Or was that only valid until Lestrade batted his eyelashes at you?"

"I fell in love, "said Mycroft, adjusting the bed so he could sit up and glare at his mouthy sibling. "It was the best thing that had ever happened to me and we were incredibly good together. But he couldn't see past the lie. He thought everything we had done and said to each other was just one huge fallacy.'

Sherlock frowned. That did not sit at all with the Lestrade he thought he knew.

"He's damaged, Sherlock," sighed Mycroft, as always correctly interpreting his brother's expression. "Just like the rest of us. All his wife did to him was lie and lie and lie."

"Oh, I see."

"So, there's nothing more to be done. If he could have found it in himself to forgive me for lying about your death, I probably wouldn't be stuck in this infernal bed half-stoned on morphine. All that matters now is me getting out of here and getting back to work."

"Don't be ridiculous, there has to be something…"

"Spare me your sentiment, brother mine. This is just further proof that emotions, love and desire are dangerous. Look after your John, and never, ever lie to him. Not about anything important. Promise me!"

"Of course. But surely someone can talk Gavin round?"

Mycroft looked sadly at his brother, an unnoticed tear trickling slowly down one drawn cheek.

"I wanted Gregory to be your brother-in-law, Sherlock. If things had gone the way I hoped, he already would be. At least get his fucking name right!"

Sherlock looked like he'd just been slapped, but he quickly rallied.

"I'll leave you to get some rest," he said, standing up. "Let me know when they're letting you out."

Mycroft merely grunted and closed his eyes, surrendering to the siren call of exhaustion and narcotics. Sherlock closed the door quietly and left the hospital, his mind awhirl.

The taxi pulled up outside number 42 and John Watson got out. He hoped he'd find Greg at home, he had drawn a blank at Greg's local and the Star of Bengal but he could hear music and the lights were on in what he knew to be the living room, so he walked up and knocked hard at the front door.

The Greg who answered it looked like he'd just rolled out of a skip. His clothes were crumpled, he hadn't shaved in a few days which had given his face a covering of silver-grey stubble and he sank of stale beer.

"Oh, it's you," said Greg flatly. "Come in, then."

John followed him into the living room where Madam Butterfly was playing on the stereo and, judging by the absence of other CD cases, probably had been for a while. Great, thought John. An opera about doomed love and betrayal. On repeat, no less. John wondered if he was really up to staging a one-man intervention.

"Fancy a beer?"

"Love one, thanks."

Greg shambled off to the kitchen and returned with two full bottles, one of which he handed to John.

"Cheers," said Greg. "So, to what do I owe the honour?"

John squirmed in his seat, taking a swig of beer to bolster his courage. He didn't like the look in Greg's eyes one bit, it looked like hatred.

"Someone asked me to come and talk to you. And, judging by the state of you and this place, it's not a moment too soon." His gesture took in the thick layer of dust on the furniture and the, frankly, ripe smell coming from the kitchen, like a dustbin in urgent need of emptying.

"Tell your boyfriend to mind his own fucking business!" snarled Greg. "Or better yet, let him tell me himself. I've got the urge to punch someone."

John tried, and failed to keep a rein on his temper.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Greg! This isn't about Sherlock! This is about you being too bloody stubborn for your own good. This is about you adding two and two and getting twenty-five."

"Start making sense, or get out," growled Greg.

"First off, I know about you and Mycroft. Nice job of keeping that one secret, by the way. I know you didn't want anything to do with him after Sherlock came back, but you never gave him a chance to explain."

"Explain what? He lied to me! He promised he never would and he did. Everything we had was a lie. Everything."

"You know that's not true. If it were, he wouldn't be in a hospital bed right now with Broken Heart Syndrome."

Greg went very pale, his jaw dropping open.

"No," said John as Greg moved to speak. "You're going to hear every word I have to say without interruption. When I'm done, well, that's up to you. You're my friend, Greg. I can't bear to see you hurting like this, especially after everything you did for me. I was ready to follow Sherlock, you know. I would have had no hesitation in sticking my gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger. You're the reason I didn't. You gave me hope. Now it's my turn."

John had Greg's undivided attention now. Mercifully the CD had stopped playing and the only sound in the room was John's voice.

"Mycroft and Sherlock, they were playing a long game. Once they knew about Moriarty, they knew he had to be stopped. They planned everything down to the last detail. Mycroft fed Moriarty a load of bullshit about Sherlock with just enough truth for it to be palatable. Sherlock even planned to fake his own death, but something made him actually go through with it. Moriarty couldn't get to Mycroft, he's far too well protected. But you and I and Mrs Hudson, well, that was a different story. The day Sherlock jumped from the roof of Bart's, there was an assassin in your office, one in Baker Street pretending to do some repairs and a sniper aiming at my head. If he hadn't jumped, we would all be dead. Only Moriarty had the ability to call them off and he left most of his brains on the hospital roof. Other people would have had to bury us, Greg, and Sherlock wasn't going to let that happen, not to the three people he cared about most in the world.

He was then free to dismantle Moriarty's criminal network. The world's finest detective was dead, you see, they never expected the lie. That's how he managed to bring it all down in such a short time. Then Sherlock's luck ran out. He was captured and tortured. You should see the scars on him…Anyway, Mycroft got him out and brought him back. You and your team had already proved that Moriarty was real, there was nothing to stop Sherlock coming back from the dead.

There should have been a happy ending all round but you couldn't, or wouldn't let anyone explain all of this to you. You were far too indignant, too hurt to listen to anyone. Until now. So, what are you going to do?"

"He still lied to me," said Greg in a dead voice.

"Christ, Greg. He lied to me too. I've forgiven him, why can't you?"

"I can now. But will he forgive me?"

John shrugged. "Take some time, then go and find out. He should be discharged from hospital either tomorrow or the day after. If you love each other, and I don't doubt that you do, you can work something out."

Greg sighed, his head in his hands.

"I'm going home now," said John. "Thanks for the beer. You know what you have to do."

Anthea was just about to switch off her laptop and go home when she received an alert. She picked up her internal telephone and dialled the extension.

"Hi, Anthea, it's Mike here. I know your boss is due back soon, but there's something I need you to look at."

"Can't it wait?"

"Don't think so," said the voice on the end of the phone.

"I'll be there in a minute," she said.

The control room of MI6 was vast. Mike waved cheerily at her as she wove her way towards him. She peered at the monitor he was pointing at.

"You asked for Scotland Yard surveillance to be activated again. Well, this turned up."

Anthea realised she was looking at a screenshot. Inwardly she rejoiced but kept a poker face.

"Send a copy of this to me, I'll see that Mr Holmes gets it as soon as possible. Oh, and Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"You never saw this, this never happened."

"Gotcha."

Back at her desk, she opened the attachment and saved it to her hard drive. She only hoped it would be enough. She was looking at a very familiar pair of hands holding up a large sheet of paper on which was printed.

MYCROFT – I'M SORRY

I LOVE YOU

FORGIVE ME.

"About time," she muttered.

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A/N Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One.

Anthea looked up from her laptop when she heard footsteps approaching. She smiled when she recognised the tall, silver-haired man.

"Morning, Inspector."

"Is he in?" asked Greg.

"He got your message. He's waiting for you."

"Oh, good."

He looked nervous, she thought. But if Mycroft's reaction to seeing the message he had sent was anything to go by, he had nothing to worry about.

Greg walked into Mycroft's office to find him standing in front of his desk, his arms folded and a chill expression on his face.

All the carefully-rehearsed words and phrases fled form Greg's mind as he looked at him, horrified at what their separation had done to him. He was as thin as a rake and both his hands were heavily bruised, a legacy of his hospital stay. That wasn't the most appalling thing, the look on his face was.

Greg had never seen him like this, this was the face of the man who practically ran the free world, he emanated power and control, his lips set as straight as a ruler and no warmth at all in his cold sapphire eyes.

"You, er, got my message then?"

"It's the only reason you were allowed in the building, Inspector. I do have a meeting with the Chancellor in five minutes."

Bollocks. Greg couldn't look at him anymore. He addressed his next words to the floor.

"I came to say I'm sorry, Mycroft. I was a stubborn, stupid idiot. I should never have reacted like that. I was supposed to love you, why would I just reject you like that without even asking for an explanation?"

"An excellent question, but the answer is simple. You were blinded by old hurts. In the end, the lie was all you could see. Do you understand now why it was necessary?"

"Yes, yes I do. Please, if you want I'll walk out this door now and you'll never have to see me again. Just tell me you forgive me."

Mycroft made a strange noise and Greg looked up to see silent tears running down Mycroft's face. The cold look was gone, this was the man he had shared his bed and his life with and Greg didn't hesitate, crossing the room and taking Mycroft's face in his hands.

"Oh, love…" murmured Greg.

"There is nothing to forgive," sniffed Mycroft. "In my wildest imaginings, I never expected losing you to hurt so much. And if my recent incarceration in hospital proves anything, it is that I can't live without you. I love you, you idiot."

Greg smiled as he wiped Mycroft's eyes with his thumbs.

"I love you too. But we can't go back, can we?"

"No, you're right. It's time for a new chapter. That is, if you're willing."

"Yes, of course. I can't think of anything I'd like more."

"Good. I've missed you so…"

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg and pulled him close, it felt like coming home. Greg held him tightly, kissing the corner of his mouth. At the last second Mycroft shifted, their lips met and they were lost, it was a drowned-deep kiss that made their hearts sing. Lack of oxygen made them break apart.

"Gregory, I've got this meeting…"

"Yeah, you said. Look, why don't I wait for you?"

"That's a lovely idea, "replied Mycroft with a smile, "However I have a better one. Will you wait for me at home?"

Shyly he reached into the watch pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a familiar key.

"I don't need a spare," he said, pressing it into Greg's hand.

Anthea did her best to stop him, but the Chancellor of the Exchequer wasn't someone to be stopped by a mere female.

"Really, don't go in there!" she begged. "Mr Holmes has someone with him."

The Chancellor merely snorted and walked in to find Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman himself, in the arms of another man. And they were kissing. He stood there, open-mouthed and watched. It was a loving, worshipful kiss and, rather than feeling amused or horrified, he felt only regret that it had been such a long time since anyone had wanted to kiss him like that.

Anthea grabbed his elbow and towed him out of the office.

"I warned you, "she scolded.

Greg followed seconds later, smiling his million-dollar smile. To the further consternation of the Chancellor, Greg leant over and kissed Anthea firmly on the cheek.

"I know it was you. Thank you, darling."

She blushed, secretly pleased.

Greg glowered at the Chancellor.

"Don't tire him out, he's just got out of hospital. I'm not kidding."

"Who do you think you are?"

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. The luckiest man alive," he replied.

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A/N Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One. This is dedicated to the lovely Greek chorus who have liked it from the start, egmon73, Lizlemler, Lavender_And_Vanilla, Elizabeth Rx and everyone else who took the time to read. Now I'm off to scour Pinterest for some new ideas…

When Mycroft returned home later that day he was met with the most delicious smells emanating from the kitchen and, even better, his Gregory who, flushed from the stove, took no hesitation in wrapping Mycroft in his arms and kissing him tenderly.

"I've wanted to hold you again all day," Greg confessed. Mycroft rested his head on Greg's shoulder, inhaling his sweet warmth and feeling the solidity of his body. This was real, he couldn't believe how much he had missed this and how lucky he felt to have it back. The kitchen timer chimed and they broke apart.

"I hope you're hungry," said Greg.

"Bloody starving, actually," Mycroft replied.

They ate at the kitchen table, Mycroft surprising Greg with his appetite as he polished off a second gargantuan portion of Greg's lasagne.

"It's been ages since anything tasted that good," he sighed contentedly and reached for his wine glass. The wine was rich and fruity and made him feel relaxed and warm.

Greg stood up to clear the table and Mycroft grabbed him round the waist, pulling him onto his lap.

"Leave that," he murmured, his hands sliding under Greg's shirt to stroke the warm skin underneath.

Greg smiled to himself. He loved the playful expression on Mycroft's face, it had been far too long since he had seen it. Mycroft also had a habit of biting his lower lip when he was concentrating. It drove Greg crazy in the best way, and he was doing it now, concentrating as he unfastened Greg's belt and unzipped him, his hand closing round his fast-growing erection. Greg nuzzled Mycroft's neck, knowing where all the pressure points were, seeing his fair skin stain pink with heat and pleasure, feeling him hard against his hip.

"Let's go to bed, "muttered Greg, Mycroft murmuring his assent.

Upstairs, Greg held Mycroft by the shoulders.

"What about your heart?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh, bugger my heart!" exclaimed Mycroft. "It's fine, Gregory. My heart isn't broken any more. Not now you're here with me. Please, darling…"

"How can I resist?" smiled Greg, drawing him close.

Greg was showered and dressed and halfway through his second cup of coffee when Mycroft materialised in the kitchen the next morning. He looked like an attractive yawn on legs wrapped in silk as he sat at the table and poured himself some black coffee. He smiled at Greg who toasted him over the rim of his own cup.

"Morning, sleeping beauty."

Mycroft tried, and failed to look indignant.

"It's all my fault. You, Detective Inspector, are too bloody irresistible for your own good. What are you doing today?"

"I'm off to Hampstead." Greg lifted up his backpack which Mycroft knew was stuffed with paper, pencils and other drawing paraphernalia. "I'll pick up something for dinner on the way back."

Mycroft smiled. "Wonderful. I think I'll go back to bed. Take care, Gregory."

"Always," said Greg, kissing him goodbye.

Greg had gone to Hampstead Heath sketching with his dad. His dad had explained how nearly all human life passed through there and could be captured on paper if only you were prepared to sit, wait and watch. Greg was lucky that morning, he found a vacant park bench, pulled out his sketchbook and pencil and waited. It was a warm day for the time of year, birds were singing in the trees and the centre of London with all its grubbiness and vice seems a long way away. Greg relaxed and just watched.

A pretty woman with long legs and her auburn hair tied back in a ponytail smiled at him as she ran past. With a few deft strokes of his pencil he had captured her essence, fluidity and grace on paper. In another life, he might have returned the smile, always in hope, but never now. Other people strolled by his bench, dog walkers, young lovers with eyes only for each other but no one stopped to sit which pleased Greg a great deal. Even better, the pretty runner passed him by again and he was able to flesh out the sketch of her to add to the others he had made that morning.

Thinking he had just about enough material to keep him busy for a while, Greg tucked his sketches into his backpack. Out the corner of his eye he could see a dishevelled man with a definite twitch approaching. Definitely time to go, he thought, I can't be bothered with that kind of thing on my own time. However, the addict had a formidable turn of speed. Greg didn't get up quickly enough and was quickly jammed against the armrest of the bench.

The stench emanating from the man almost made Greg vomit but what was worse was what was pricking into his side. With a sick certainty, he knew what it was and how his life would now be measured in minutes. Or seconds.

"This is a commando knife, Detective Inspector," hissed the man, his foul breath making Greg cough. There was increased pressure and a white-hot pain. "If you move, you forfeit a lung at the very least. But where would be the fun in that?" His accent was Eastern European.

"Why me?" gasped Greg. Sweat was pouring down his face now but he was sure that that wasn't what was soaking into the waistband of his jeans.

"My old boss wanted you dead because of your association with Sherlock Holmes. If he hadn't jumped, you would be dead by now. My new boss wants you crippled to hurt someone else. You can't believe how they rejoiced when they found a chink in Mycroft Holmes's armour. You, of all people."

Greg cried out as the knife twisted again. He could feel blood pouring now and it made him feel light-headed. Worse again, it looked as if the Heath was utterly deserted. His assassin grinned, noticing.

"No one is coming to save you, Inspector. I'm extremely good at what I do. One-deft-cut…and you will never walk again. I wonder just how loving your boyfriend will be when…"

Greg heard the loud crack, but apparently only he knew what it signified. The grip on him was released. Hard to hold on, thought Greg in the way of the mildly delirious, when half your head's been shot off.

It was the runner. She tucked the nine-mill handgun in the waistband of her trousers and rushed over to him.

"Sorry, sir. I should have got here quicker. DC Wilson, Diplomatic Protection." She pressed on the wound where the knife had been with her sweatshirt and both hands. Greg couldn't speak.

"There's an ambulance on its way. Try and hold on, Inspector."

Everything was getting hazy and it was getting darker. There was something important he had to tell her but he couldn't get the words out, couldn't say the name he loved so much. Greg heard the sirens approaching as the world went black.

He awoke to see a very familiar, very concerned face hovering over him.

"Welcome back, Greg," said John Watson. "You had us worried for a minute there."

"John! What…Ow!" Pain ripped through him as he tried to sit up.

"Yeah, sorry, mate. Had to put a few stitches in your side where that mad bastard stabbed you. We thought it was a lot worse but a lot of the blood was from the guy who tried to kill you."

"Where's the woman? The one who saved me?"

"She's gone, mate. Brought you here, made sure we contacted Mycroft and disappeared. Lucky she was there."

"Luck my arse," snorted Greg. "He's put me back under surveillance. Wait till I get a hold of him."

Just then Greg heard the loud patrician tones of Mycroft Holmes in full British Government mode. Greg would have laughed, but it hurt too much.

"Tell me where Gregory Lestrade is right now, you horrible little man or I assure you, you will be very, very sorry indeed."

"Christ, John. Let him in before he deports half of your department."

Greg had never seen Mycroft so dishevelled or so upset. Only extreme stress would have brought him out of the house without a tie or jacket. He took Greg's hand in his and kissed it frantically.

"I couldn't believe it when I got that phone call, that you'd been stabbed. I've had the torment of the damned till I got here. Oh, love, are you all right?"

"He'll be fine, Mycroft," said John in his best bedside manner. "Just a few stitches and he's lost a bit of blood. I'll come around to yours in a few days' time to take the stitches out. Till then, stay off work, Greg. I'll give you a prescription for antibiotics and pain killers."

John looked sternly at Mycroft.

"Make sure he takes them."

"Don't worry, John. I will."

"I'll get the paperwork started for your discharge, just hang fire for a while." John left the cubicle as Greg looked at Mycroft.

"Diplomatic Protection? Really?"

"Lovely girl," mumbled Mycroft, refusing to make eye contact. "Old friend of Anthea's. I'm sorry, my love. We only just got new intelligence about a possible threat. I honestly didn't have time to tell you about it and look what happened. You almost died. I knew something like this might happen, I'm dangerous to be around."

"Don't talk bollocks, if I hadn't had my head in the clouds he'd never have got near me. Great use of the Government's resources." But Greg was smiling when he said it, thrilled by the idea that Mycroft would do something like that for him.

"It's common for one's, er, spouse to be protected to a greater or lesser degree, my love. Very common for senior personnel."

"Well", said Greg, hissing as he sat up in the hospital bed. "we can't have you lying to the Commissioner, can we?" He reached out to the dressing tray and snagged a roll of dressing tape off it.

"I had hoped I'd do this somewhere a lot more romantic, and I had hoped you wouldn't look so bloody worried."

"Gregory, you're not making any sense. If you had died today, I would have died tomorrow. And I didn't have time to tell you…"

Greg put his finger on Mycroft's lips.

"Shhh. I need to ask you something. Will you marry me?"

Mycroft, overcome with emotion could only nod, tears pouring down his face as Greg wrapped some of the tape round Mycroft's ring finger.

"I love you," said Greg with heartfelt sincerity. "So very much. Let's make this a proper new beginning."

The End


End file.
